


The Devil Beside You

by thelittlestteacup



Category: The Walking Dead & Related Fandoms, The Walking Dead (Comics), The Walking Dead (TV), The Walking Dead Series - Robert Kirkman & Jay Bonansinga
Genre: Action/Adventure, Blood and Gore, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Romance, F/M, Gore, Horror, Multi, Other, Romance, Slow Burn, Walkers (Walking Dead), Zombie Apocalypse, Zombies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2020-12-16 19:07:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21041246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelittlestteacup/pseuds/thelittlestteacup
Summary: Lily was a cheerleader, a babysitter, and surrogate daughter of one Philip Blake until the world went to Hell. Rewrite of an older fic. Rating subject to change due to violence etc. Slow, slow-burn Daryl/OC. I mean, really.





	1. Reservations

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! I have decided to start posting my reworking of an older fic here as well as on fanfiction.net (where it can be found under the same name). There is also an accompanying tumblr at https://thedevilbesideyouff.tumblr.com/, so feel free to venture over there too if this tickles your fancy.  
I have been working on this story, plot-wise, for years and there is some canon divergence and plenty of fun twists. Some trigger warnings for depictions of violence for later chapters. This is a very, very slow-burn romance, hopefully that's your jam, that begins at the end of season 3 of the show. Hopefully you stick around for the long haul :)  
Enjoy xx

“Lily won’t get off the bus,” I hear Sasha voice outside, laced with concern. The windows are sealed shut, something that had made the trip here sweaty and uncomfortable, and I hide my head below the line of the panes, tucking my knee on my chin. If they look up, they might be able to spot the top of my head, but I don’t want them seeing my face right now.

“She won’t get off the bus?” The voice is rough, masculine.

“Everyone else practically ran off there after seeing those bodies …” That was Tyreese.

“You know why it isn’t the same for her.” Sasha again, quieter this time.

“And why is that?” Another masculine Southern drawl, softer than the other.

“She’s the Governor’s daughter,” Tyreese says, after a moment of hesitation.

There is a collective intake of breath, a curse, a hiss.

“She isn’t,” Sasha’s says, defensively, “I mean … not properly. I guess she may as well be though.”

“He’s going to come looking for her.”

“He left her like everyone else.” Sasha, always looking out for me.

There is squabbling, angry and red, words I can’t make out and the bus rocks, heavy footfalls coming up the few steps.

A dark-haired man, perhaps mid to late 40s, dressed in a clean button-down rolled up at the elbows, his handsome, stubble-covered face twisted in consternation. I note the gun at his waist, the knife tucked into his belt. I’d seen him for a moment at Woodbury, before Sasha had just about pulled my arm out of its socket getting me on the bus. He walks down the aisle, kicking something aside, perhaps a forgotten bag, and makes his way closer to the middle of the vehicle. I hug my bare knees in tighter to my chest. Another man makes an appearance behind the first; greasy looking hair of indistinguishable colour and rippling, bare arms are all I take in before the first man is addressing me by name, dragging my attention upwards.

“Are you alright?” He sits in the seat across from me and leans forward, forearms resting on his knees. He has very blues eyes beneath his furrowed brow.

I can’t think of how to even begin answering that question, so I bite my lip and wipe away a stray tear.

“Lily?”

“I just … can’t move right now.”

“Rick we ain’t got time for this, got a prison full of new people,” The other man, still loitering in the aisle and looking too big for the space, owns the angry, harsh voice from outside and I stare at him, his bearing suddenly familiar to me.

“Daryl.” The man across from me, Rick, shoots him a pointed glare. “Go help them. We can make time for this.”

“Daryl?” My voice is strained and unrecognisable as my own. “Daryl Dixon?”

I had seen him, up close and personal that night in Woodbury. Even in my fog of fear and anxiety, when I had pushed Philip’s chest and screamed for him to let Merle go, I had still noticed Daryl and briefly locked eyes with him.

Daryl’s nostrils flare and his arm flexes, alerting me to the weapon on his back; “What’s it to you?”

“You’re Merle’s brother? Is he here?” I never thought I would be so eager to see that arsehole.

Daryl and Rick both tense, exchanging glances.

“I’m sorry, no. He was killed …”

“By your dad,” Daryl spits that word like venom.

A fresh batch of tears prick at my eyes, unbidden. I don’t know what hurts more, the idea of no Merle to make me laugh every day or Philip being the one to take that away.

“No … he wouldn’t. He cared about Merle.” I shake my head with every word.

“Well he did, Princess. Best stop being in denial.”

‘Princess’, Merle had called me that too.

“Daryl,” Rick hisses his name out in warning, “We can talk about this later.”

Daryl huffs, shooting me another glare, but marches off the bus.

“Tyreese and Sasha, they said the Governor is your father …”

I shrug.

“But you mean something to him?”

I straighten my legs, smoothing my dress over my thighs.

“I thought I did. We knew each other before all this …” I wave my hand uselessly.

“Before?” Rick quirks an eyebrow.

“A long time before, since I was a kid …”

He grits his teeth and I can sense the cogs turning in his head.

“Will he come for you?”

“I …” I begin my answer not even knowing what I am going to say. What will they do with me now? Would they kick me out, leave me to fend for myself? How long would I survive?

“You need to be honest with me Lily.” He keeps using my name, to reassure me, and it’s working despite my reservations. This Rick, a name that Philip had used around me once or twice in anger, knows what he is doing.

“I don’t know. Things haven’t been the same with Philip, or with us, for a long time,” I say with a grimace, “But … I get the feeling he doesn’t like you much. I don’t know what he’ll do, but I don’t know what difference I will make to his plans …”

“You ‘get the feeling’? You don’t know what happened?”

“He never told me much about stuff like that … What was going on,” I shrug, disguising the urge to sob. It’s nestled in my stomach, an unsettling weight.

“He protected you from it all,” Rick says in understanding.

“From everything …”

“Are you going to be a problem here?” He asks with doubt, appraising me.

I choke out a little laugh.

“I really doubt that. I care about the people here … my friends,” I test the phrase. When we’d passed the field, littered with bodies, people we had known and cared about, every single head on the bus had turned towards me.

“Yesterday this is what I thought I knew; you guys were bad, and Philip was good, and I love … loved him. It’s … too much right now, but I appreciate you taking me in?” I don’t mean to voice it as a question, but it comes out that way regardless and his mouth is a thin smile.

“We may have more questions for you …”

“I’ll do my best to answer them for you.”

“Even if it means going against the Governor.”

My eyes widen, but after a beat, I manage a nod. Against him? What will they ask of me?

“Well, alright then. Think you can come in and join us now?”  
I flash him what I hope is a genuine smile and nod again, standing up with some effort due to my stiff limbs and heft the bag from the floor beside me. I go to grab my other, larger pack, but Rick bats my hand away with a smile, picking it up himself and grunting.

“You pack rocks?”

I chuckle, surprising myself. I hadn’t, of course, but Rick doesn’t need to know just how many dresses and shoes are in that bag.

My legs are shaky with fatigue and anxiety, but I succeed in getting off the bus, following Rick willingly despite the ever-growing pit in my stomach. I’m too afraid to linger on thoughts of Merle, or Philip.

Sasha is waiting for us, just outside, and I smile at her when she rubs my arm. This part of the prison is a hub of activity, and I see more faces I recognise than ones I don’t. There had been twenty-seven of us left at Woodbury, including Karen, a significantly greater number than they must have already had here. People are milling about, being directed through the yard, assisting one another with their belongings, most helping our older residents like Ms McLeod. I hesitate, not quite ready to join them.

“We’re going to be setting everyone up with cell blocks as soon as we can, but for now the best we offer most of you is the courtyard,” Rick says, gesturing to the space around us. “Lily, do you have a tent?”

“She can bunk in mine, with me,” Sasha says before I can answer, placing a hand on my shoulder, a touch I lean back into.

Rick nods and places my heavy bag at his feet. “I have to get in there. We’ll talk more later.” I stare at the tops of my shoes, my nicer sneakers, and balk when Rick touches my hand.

“I’m sorry, Lily. For what you have lost.” He leaves without further ceremony and I turn back to Sasha, my smile not reaching my eyes.

“Talk more later? What did he mean?”

“Seems that my connection to Philip is worrying everyone …”

“It’s going to be just fine,” she says, a firm reassurance I almost believe until I see a looming shape from somewhere behind her. It’s Daryl, that same silently fuming look on his face, a crossbow, the weapon I had seen resting on his broad back before, now in his hands.

“Wow he is pissed at me, huh?”

Sasha glances back at him.

“Pretty sure he just always looks like that …”

“If you say so,” I say lamely, but that dead-eyed Dixon stare, the one that I had seen Merle give to others, but somehow never to me, is penetrating even from across the yard.

As we turn together, Sasha heaving my bag that Rick had left with a grunt, I can still feel it boring into the back of my head like a hot coal.

* * *

Sasha left me with our stuff, my two bags and her own, dingy little rucksack and her ancient tent in the middle of the yard.

“I have to go help the others. Karen and Ryan can’t do it by themselves. You gonna be okay?”

I don’t know if she means in general, or with setting up the tent, but either way the answer is a resounding no that I can’t bring myself to say so I smile brightly and motion for her to leave, pretending to sort out the bent tent poles and pegs.

I have been kneeling on the concrete for what feels like forever, my frustration growing with each new failure. Several others have all set up their own little tents and left, and now the place looks like its playing host to some sort of music festival. I, of course, still haven’t even succeeded in getting all the poles together. I huff and throw the remaining lengths of metal aside, leaning over to the pile of tacky orange fabric, that classic plasticky kind, and am puzzling over it when approaching footsteps draw my gaze.

Daryl stops in front of me, kicking up a puff of dirt as he does so, and I take a step back to create some distance. He places the crossbow, like the one Haley had owned, by his feet and stoops down to pick up the pieces of the tent, fitting two poles together within seconds.

“Thank you,” I say in earnest, offering him a shy smile as I peer up at him. He has a good five or so inches on me, and yet he somehow seems much taller.  
I note again the similarities, and more specifically, the differences between him and his brother.

“Taking so long you’d be out ‘til dark still struggling with it,” he says by way of explanation.

“Yeah, I guess I kind of suck at this.” My easy self-deprecation seems to surprise him, and he blinks when I hand him the final tent poles, the ones I had already managed to link together.

“Ain’t never camped out before?” His tone doesn’t betray any real interest, but I respond anyway. It’s a nice, easy question, one I don’t mind answering if it will stop him glowering at me for a few minutes.

“As a kid, once or twice with my parents, but we had a camper van …”

“Nah, after all this.”

“Oh!” I say, and I can feel my cheeks flushing at my mistake, “Yeah, we did a little on the road stuff. But I never had to set up any tents by myself …” Contextually it’s an embarrassing admission, and Daryl’s slit-eyed stare isn’t helping my building shame. He snorts, full of derision, and finishes setting the tent up without any help, or hindrance from me.

“Thank you,” I say again, toeing the ground in a sudden wave of nervousness. He hasn’t left and there is no Rick, or Sasha around to act as a buffer.

“You were friends with Merle?” Daryl asks, after a brief, but awkward pause and I test another smile on him.

“You seem to doubt that,” I say with a chuckle. Merle and I were about as unlikely friends as you could find, and yet …

“Women didn’t like Merle much. Not uh … girls like …” He pauses, evidently searching for a descriptor before coming up nil.

“Like me?” I know what he means. City girls, clean girls, good girls, Christian girls. Pick one.

The corner of his mouth twitches.

“Yeah, it was a shaky start,” I say, “He cared enough about playing by the rules, respecting Philip, to leave me alone at first. Plus, I helped him a bit, with his hand …” I shake my head and my loose hair tickles my upper back, “Eventually, I don’t know, just sort of happened.” It’s a lie. I know exactly how it happened, but Daryl doesn’t need to hear that story today. “He was funny, your brother.”

“Funny?” Daryl asks with blatant scepticism.

“Sure. In a gross kind of way.” I grin. “He could be quite sweet to me, you know? I’m sorry …” I trail off with a gulp, the still dull weight inside me gaining new depths. “I’m sorry he isn’t with us anymore. I’m sorry for your loss.”

Daryl chews on the side of his thumb, watching me from beneath fair lashes and nods his acceptance of my apology.

“We talked about you a lot. He used to tell me these stories about …” I begin, emboldened by the softening around his eyes, but Daryl stills, the doubt and irritation etching across his features again.

“I don’t wanna hear nothing ‘bout what you think you know about me, or my brother.” His voice is acid and I flinch.

“I … I’m sorry. I just thought …”

“No one wants to hear what you think, alright? Governor’s little pet, waltzing in here and already fooling people into believing you’re no threat. You don’t fool me. Best case scenario you’re just useless dead weight that can’t even pitch a tent or carry a damn bag. The Governor killed my brother! Whatever he was to you it ain’t nothing compared to that! You know, he left him to become a Walker, left him for me to find. Your family did that to mine!” He is almost yelling by the end of his tirade and my hands are curled into fists by my sides, a mirror pose to his own. A wave of nausea hits me as I start to connect it all together, make sense of what he is telling me. Merle. One of those things.

“You asked me, Daryl! You wanted to know. I’m not saying it compares, but I cared about Merle too. I never thought he would … Only thing that could kill Merle was Merle, you know?” I’m speaking before I have a chance to think about it, and feel my eyes growing wet.

Daryl freezes mid-rage, his fists unclenching as he eyeballs me. He seems oddly shaken by my sentiment and opens and closes his mouth a few times, waiting for words. After staring at me for a few more tension-filled moments, the man picks up his crossbow and starts stomping away across the yard, his retreating form soon beyond my line of sight.


	2. No Cinnamon, No Berries.

I don’t know where Sasha scrounged the sleeping bags from, but the ground is hard and cold anyway, even with her folded up against me. It’s how we had napped at Woodbury, during those final hours, closed-up with all the others, while we waited. It’s comforting and I manage a few hours’ sleep in the end.

I hadn’t come out of the tent again once Daryl had left. I had stopped crying eventually, too dehydrated to summon any more tears, and Sasha had come in a few times to arrange a sleeping area for us and tempt me with food. I hadn’t eaten, and now, in what I assume is the early morning, I am starving, my stomach tight and sore.

I extricate myself from one of Sasha’s long legs and dress hurriedly in the first leggings, singlet and hooded sweater I pull from my bag, slipping on the same socks and sneakers from yesterday.

My hair is a mess, but I manage to tame it into a ponytail. My face, however, is another issue entirely, my small compact mirror revealing that I’m unusually pale, my eyes ringed with dark circles like a raccoon. I wipe the remnants of makeup and dab on some concealer, limited in the filtered, orange glow of the tent. It’s too early for any real degree of visibility and other than the cover-up of my under-eyes and a fresh application of mascara I am unable to do much else to my appearance. It’s vanity, and totally unnecessary at the end of the world, but I can’t bring myself to face the day, and a prison full of people who don’t trust me, without at least feeling a little like the old me.

It’s that eerie kind of quiet in the courtyard when I exit the tent, and despite the presence of the other scattered tents, no one appears to be up and about yet. I don’t think I have ever been up this early, certainly not voluntarily, and stand amongst the tents for a few moments pondering my next move. We had some of our people staying in the cell block, but I don’t know exactly who is in there and I certainly don’t feel comfortable enough barging into that space uninvited. A rustle of movement draws my attention to the gate, and the two figures standing there. One of them is Michonne, her hand curled around the hilt of the sword at her waist. She has her back to me, but I can see her head moving from side to side as she scans the perimeters of the fence-line. The other woman I only vaguely recognise, having seen her helping others off the bus yesterday. I can’t place her age, her features are youthful, but her hair is grey, and she is already staring at me when I make eye contact with her. She motions for me to come over to them, and offers me a small, but genuine smile when I get closer, the soft hush of my footsteps alerting Michonne to my presence. If I had to pick someone to converse with in the morning, especially while feeling so anxious and out-of-sorts, it would be anyone but Michonne, but she merely cocks an eyebrow at me and nods her head in greeting.

“You’re Lily, right?” The grey-haired woman asks, and I return her smile. “I’m Carol. You already know Michonne?”

“We’ve met,” Michonne says in a low drawl.

“Uh, yeah. Hi, nice to meet you, Carol. And see you again, Michonne.”

She huffs in response and turns back to the fence.

“Did you sleep okay? We didn’t see you yesterday … Did you get anything to eat?”

I had not been expecting this degree of care from anyone and realise I have been staring at Carol rather than responding to her concerned questions.

“I slept … okay,” I say. “Sasha snores a bit.” I gesture back to the tent and Carol grins. “I didn’t really eat though, no.” My stomach contorts at the thought of food and I try to hide my grimace.

“I’d fix you something, but I shouldn’t leave here …” Carol trails off, looking towards Michonne for confirmation. “But Hershel and Beth are already up, in the cell block. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind if you went in. You tell them I sent you.” Her kindness is disarming, and I stutter a thank you, too hungry, and too eager to get away from Michonne, to articulate proper appreciation. Or indeed, ask who Hershel and Beth are.

I say my goodbyes and weave between the tents that have sprouted around the courtyard like bizarre flowers, finding my way to the cell block entrance. It’s still quiet, but I hear a smattering of conversation as I make my way through the darkened hallway and follow the voices into what seems to be some sort of rest area. A white-haired, elderly man is balancing on crutches while stirring a large pot over some sort of dinky camp stove, and a young girl, younger than me, is perched on a bench nearby, a swaddled bundle clasped in her arms. They both turn towards me as I enter, matching curious looks on their faces.

“Hiya,” I say, in as cheery voice as I can muster. “Uh … Carol said that Hershel and Beth might be able to help me with food …” I feel myself flush, realising how rude I must sound. “Is that you guys? I’m Lily.”

I walk down the metal steps with one hand skating the railing and wait at the bottom for one of them to say something. Hershel breaks the brief silence with a smile barely visible beneath his beard and extends a hand, which I walk over to shake. He has a warm, strong grip.

“It’s a pleasure, Lily. We were just about to eat, you would be welcome to join us.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

Hershel starts to refuse my offer when the bundle the girl, Beth, is holding gives out a loud cry and starts squirming. With practised ease she stands up, bouncing the baby and scooting around the table in the centre of the room towards a little set of shelves up against the far wall.

“On second thoughts, if you could get those bowls …” Hershel gestures towards the plastic bowls on the table, and I grab three, holding them one at a time for him to dish the grey oatmeal into. Beth has resettled the baby with a bottle that she managed to whip up without putting the child down, and I’m able to catch a glimpse of a chubby, pink face in the crook of her elbow as she sits back down on the bench. I take one of the bowls of oatmeal from Hershel and set it down on the table in front of Beth with a smile.

“That is one cute baby.”

“Thank you,” she replies, her own smile a little tight, while she nurses the infant.

I balance my own porridge on my knees and slide onto the bench, a polite distance between Beth and Hershel, who has hobbled his way over to join us. I’m tempted to ask about the child, if Beth is her mother, but focus on my food instead. She feeds herself with one hand, paying more attention to the baby and the bottle in her arms.

After a few tasteless bites of food, the clenching in my stomach abates enough for me to inspect my surroundings properly.

“How long have you been here?” The Biters in the yard, the guttered fences, and now this cell block looking like it has seen better days, does not exactly speak of home-sweet-home.

“A few weeks,” Hershel answers after finishing his mouthful. “It was more set up before …”

“Before the Governor came.” Beth finishes, avoiding my gaze.

“Philip came here?” I place the bowl beside me, its contents suddenly even more unappetising.

“You didn’t know,” Hershel says, not as a question.

I shake my head and rub the back of my neck ruefully.

“Apparently, there was a lot I didn’t know that he did. The hole in the fence …?”

“Yeah, that was him. The guard tower too …”

“So, all the Biters as well?”

“We had the place secured, safe. He and his people tore it apart.” Hershel stares at me warily, waiting for a response and I gnaw the skin of my lower lip, wondering how to ask the questions I don’t want the answers to.

“I think … I need to know what else he kept from me.”

“I don’t know if I can be the one to tell you that, but I’m sure Rick will,” the old man says, not unkindly. As he stands with some struggle, balancing his crutches and now empty bowl, I clock the space where his lower leg should be, looking away as soon as I realise that I am staring.

“I was bitten,” he says, hobbling over to the trough in the corner that is serving as a sink.

“Rick saved Daddy’s life,” Beth says. I blanch.

“He cut your leg off, above the bite? And you’ve been able to prevent infection? No signs of DVT?”

Hershel appraised me with renewed curiosity.

“You have medical training?”

“Only a little. I helped with Merle’s amputation site, after we found him. We were at Milton’s back then, and he seemed pretty knowledgeable about everything, had a decent medical library. I learned what I could … Helped where I could.” I shrug.

“What’s DVT?” Beth asks, removing the now drained bottle from the mouth of the groggy infant.

“Deep vein thrombosis, a risk of amputations.”

Beth’s gaze flashes over to her father, leaning on the wall by the trough.

“Don’t worry, Bethy. I’m just fine.” He makes his way back to the bench, sitting closer to me this time as I stare down at my thin oatmeal, playing with my food more than I am eating it.

“You know, Lily, your medical knowledge, as limited as you think it is, could be an asset here. I could teach you more if you would like …”

“You were a doctor?”

“A veterinarian.” I nod in response. Heck, vets did equivocal training to MDs at college and needed to be even more varied in their skills most of the time. Hershel would know his stuff.

“Maybe …” I say finally, twisting the spoon in the oatmeal gloop, “I have a bit of a weak stomach.”

Hershel’s moustache hitches up as he smiles.

“You put up with Merle Dixon _and _looked after his wound? Sounds like you’re a lot tougher than you are giving yourself credit for.”

I smile in return.

“I’m guessing, if you’re asking me, that Milton …?”

Hershel shakes his head.

“Another question for Rick. But no, as far as I know, he didn’t make it.”

I suck in a breath through my teeth.

“He was a good man, Milton.” My head snaps up, and through my peripherals I see Beth respond in a similar fashion.

“You knew him?”

“We met just the once, during the meeting the Governor called with Rick that Andrea instigated …”

“I remember. I hadn’t wanted them to go. Philip, Milton, Caesar …”

“Caesar?”

“Uh, Martinez? Hispanic guy, usually with a big ol’ baseball bat.”

“I remember him.”

“Did he … was he one of those people that Philip …?” I hike my knees up to my chest, resting my heels on the edge of the bench seat. It’s a familiar, comfortable position, and pressing my chin to the point of my kneecap grounds me enough to stop my tears.

“I don’t think so, no. I assume he is with the Governor now, wherever that may be.” Hershel reaches out and pats my knee and I give him a weak smile.

“You cared about them all, huh?” Beth asks, standing to shift the baby to her other arm and rocking the bundle as it squirms in reaction to the change in position.

“We were our own little family, I know you know what that’s like,” I say and they both nod. 

“Judith isn’t mine,” Beth says, head tilted towards the infant she is holding, “but she feels like mine, like all of ours.”

“Judith? That’s her name?” I wipe away a few tears that had succeeded in falling despite my efforts and smile.

“She’s Rick’s baby really,” Beth admits, shifting from hip to hip as she soothes Judith back to sleep.

“And her mother?” I turn back to Hershel as he shakes his head, his eyes clouded.

“During the birth?” I gulp. It’s too horrible to truly consider. No babies had been born at Woodbury, but I imagined if they had been, we would have managed. But here, in a prison, with likely scant medical supplies …

“I’m sorry. This is hardly breakfast conversation.”

“No, it’s nice. To talk to someone new,” Beth says with a smile that doesn’t quite meet her eyes. She heads out the room, through a barred door that can only lead to the cells where the remainder of the group is.

“Thank you for the food, Hershel,” I say as I uncurl my legs and grab my bowl, wolfing the rest of the oatmeal down on my way to wash my dishes.

“This is going to be an adjustment for all of us, but I hope you don’t feel unwelcome, Lily. My offer stands. It would be good to have others with medical training around here.”

“I’ll definitely consider it, thank you. Whatever I can do to help.”

There is a bucket of soap tinged water inside the trough and an odd assortment of kitchen sponges. I wash my dishes as best I can without running water, drying them with a dishtowel that is hanging over the lip of the makeshift sink.

I hear Hershel shifting behind me and then new footsteps entering the space and I bristle at the sudden intrusion of someone else despite myself. This is their home. If anyone is intruding, it’s me.

I turn only when I have completed my task of cleaning my dishes and see a young, Asian man and a pretty woman with choppy brown hair dishing up their own bowls of oatmeal.

I muster a smile for them, wiping my hands dry on the same cloth I had used for my bowl.

“Lily, right? You already had some?” The guy asks, wrinkling his nose as the oats slop into his bowl.

“Ah, yeah. Thank you.”

“If only we had cinnamon, berries,” the woman laments, sniffing her own food and judging it before spooning some into her mouth.

“Hey, I made that,” Hershel says from his seat on the bench, his eyes alight with amusement.

“Sorry Dad, I just miss variety.” The woman takes a seat next to him.

“And sugar,” says the man, leaning his hip against the table as he eats quickly.

“This is my other daughter, Maggie,” Hershel says by way of introduction, touching the woman’s shoulder. “And Glenn.” Maggie waves her fingers at me in between spoons of oatmeal, but Glenn looks at me with some interest and offers me his hand to shake.

“Sorry, I kind of forgot you wouldn’t know who we are yet. We know all about you.” I still and he notices my expression. “Oh, not _all_. Nothing bad …” He trails off into a cough and shoves his spoon back in his mouth.

“There may have been some discussion yesterday about you,” Hershel admits, ignoring the frown Maggie directs at him.

“Because of Philip?” I ask and tug on the edge of my hoodie.

“Hey, it’s not you. Nothing you’ve done, okay?” Glenn says, dark eyes searching my own.

“I get it,” I say with a small shrug, noticing the glances being exchanged between the others as I go to head back up the steps I had previously come down. They seem concerned so I turn back to smile at them all,

“Thank you for the hospitality.”

Glenn blinks before waving at me with his spoon.

“Lily! Just the person I was looking for.” It’s Ryan, steering Lizzie and Mika out of the cell block and towards us with a hand on each of their shoulders.

“Hey Ryan, girls,” I say, grinning at them and Mika smiles at me, still sleep affected.

“Would you mind watching them for a bit? Rick asked if I could help him and Tyreese with a perimeter check.”

“Sure. Any more of that oatmeal for these two?” I direct the question at Hershel who nods, and Glenn, seeing this exchange, finishes the rest of his breakfast, dishing up some food for the girls and I smile warmly at him. So far, this group, the ones Philip had warned us about, are proving to be nicer than I could have imagined. With one, plaid shirt clad exception. 


	3. Some Kind of Pacifist

Ryan leaves while breakfast is being served, gripping Lizzie’s shoulders and telling her to “be good,” causing a frown to mar her pretty face. I wait with the girls while they pick at their food. Hershel excuses himself, returning to the cell block, and Maggie and Glenn mention something about guard duty.

“I hate it here,” Lizzie says with a hiss, pushing her bowl away as soon as its only us left.

Mika freezes almost comically, spoon loaded with oatmeal held aloft. “You hate it?”

“It’s a _prison_.” Lizzie lowers her voice. “Probably full of ghosts.”

Mika’s eyes widen.

“Better than full of Biters,” I joke, nudging Mika with a smile. “I think we’ll be safe here …”

“Safe like at Woodbury?” Mika asks and I mull the query over.

“Maybe even safer …”

“Can we go outside?” Lizzie hands me her bowl, which I wash alongside Mika’s, although she barely touched her food.

“I don’t know if we should. Your dad said …”

“He just said for you to watch us. Can’t you do that outside?” Lizzie crosses her skinny arms over her chest.

“Can you show us more dancing?” Mika’s voice hitches in excitement and I smile, giving an exaggerated sigh.

“Fine. We can go outside to the courtyard. One dance lesson, no tricks. You stick to me like glue, capiche?” I shoo them out of the room ahead of me, Lizzie giving me a rare smile when we exit the cell block and hit a wall of sunlight. It’s a blissfully warm day, although still early, and the yard is beginning to stir with activity. I wave to a few familiar faces, leading the pair of sisters over to where the tents are thinnest, providing us with a decent patch of concrete.

“Alright, no music, obviously. What do you want to do Mika?” I ask, knowing full well that Lizzie will just watch with her head tilted to one side, offer the occasional comment but otherwise refuse to join in.

“Ballet?” The younger of the two asks, staring at me through her hair.

I nod. It’s always ballet.

I run her through the basics again, first position through to fifth. Neither of us are wearing the ideal footwear, but she remembers the movements well enough from last time, only needing a little correcting on her arms and fingers. Penny was the same every time I showed her and it’s a bittersweet memory I avoid lingering on for too long.

“Can you do one of those flips again?” Lizzie asks, kicking a stone loose with the toe of her shoe.

“I said no tricks, didn’t I?”

“Please Lily?” Mika asks.

“You guys are going to kill me, you know that? Those little puppy dog eyes …”

Mika juts out her lower lip and whimpers and I laugh, raising my hands in defeat.

“Alright, I’ll do _one_ flip. Going to scratch my hands up on this dang concrete …” I huff and unzip my sweater, leaving me in just a singlet, and hand the garment to Mika who is grinning at me. I have already practiced with her long enough to feel at least a bit warmed up, but I stretch my arms some more, and test out my weight on my palms. The ground is rougher than it looks, but it’s manageable.

“One trick,” I say to the girls, wagging my finger for emphasis.

Mika giggles in excitement as I do a lazy cartwheel to a round off, my feet hitting the ground together. I wipe a bit of gravel from my palms, which are looking red, but no worse for wear.

“Happy?” I ask with a grin. The girls, and their father, had only been at Woodbury for a few weeks before all this, but I couldn’t count the amount of times Mika had followed me around asking me to show her some moves.

“Come on, Lil. One more.” It’s Sasha, looking like she just rolled out of bed with her hair still flat on one side.

“Not you too, don’t encourage them,” I say, thumbing in the direction of the two girls, Mika practically bouncing on her heels.

“How often do you get an audience these days?” Sasha flashes a smile and I sigh.

“Fine,” I say, lengthening the word into multiple syllables. “But next time you find me some grass or something.” I motion for the girls to step back further, Sasha going to stand beside them. I do another couple of cartwheels, ignoring the pricks in my hands from the ground, and calculate my available space in the courtyard. It’s just enough for a small run up, all I’ll need for a double aerial and I flip backwards into position, showing off a little. Three fast steps and I propel myself into the air, gaining enough height to fly forward and over, allowing the weight of my body to carry me back to the ground. It’s the brief feeling of weightlessness I adore, pure exhilaration, and my body twists into the familiar move. I land a little heavier than I would have liked, it’s been a while, but Mika claps in delight and I mock bow to my audience, an audience which seems to have grown in number.

“Can you teach me how to do that?” The boy whose stepped forward is wearing a sheriff’s hat.

“Not sure your dad would like that much,” Sasha says with a grin, bumping the kid’s shoulder.

“What wouldn’t I like?” Rick asks, approaching us, shadowed by Daryl, who looks even more dirty in the morning light.

I suddenly notice that my singlet has ridden up and flush, tugging it down to avoid embarrassment.

“She’s some kind of gymnast, Dad,” the boy says, and I give Rick an awkward wave.

“Is that so?” The man rubs his scruffy beard and smiles at me.

“Go on, show them, Lil.” Sasha keeps on smiling and I scowl at her, my cheeks flaming.

“I swear I keep trying to get out of this …”

“Yeah, yeah. Show us a trick,” Sasha says.

“Don’t try any of this at home, okay kids?” I say, addressing the sisters and Rick’s son. I pointedly ignore Daryl, who is eyeing me with his arms crossed.

I do part of what had been my tumbling routine in my last competition, minus the floor work and dancing, and each move comes to me with relative ease. Front tuck, aerial cartwheel, tour jete into handspring and round off. Its far more challenging on the concrete than the surfaces I’m used to, my feet skidding a little on my landings, but my audience aren’t a panel of experienced judges, and I hear a few whoops as I finish in a series of whip backs. I readjust my clothes and hair, returning the eager smile Mika is giving me. Daryl looks a little awed, an expression he masks with a frown when he catches my eye.

Rick actually looks impressed. “Were you a professional, before this?”

I shake my head. “Not quite … just a cheerleader.”

Sasha scoffs. “A cheerleader with a scholarship_ and _a spot in one of the top teams in the country.”

“Stop it,” I say, my cheeks heating again.

“What is this, the damn Olympics? We got work to do,” Daryl says, eyes narrowed and voice almost a growl as he stomps away.

Rick shrugs at me as if in apology. “Sasha was right about another thing. No way in Hell am I letting you teach Carl all that.” He gives the boy a fleeting smile. “You’d break your neck.” He turns on his heel, following Daryl through the courtyard, skirting the cluster of tents.

“Sorry, bud. Maybe one day, huh?” I say, and the boy, Carl, surprises me by giving me his grubby hand to shake. His grasp is firmer than mine, and up close I can see he is taller than I first thought, on the peak of adolescence.

“Carl Grimes,” he says, tilting his head under the too-big sheriff’s hat so I can see the freckles that litter his nose.

“Lily Foster.” It’s the most formal, polite introduction I have had from anyone and it’s rather charming. “I think I met your little sister inside.”

“She doing alright?” Sasha asks. I had almost forgotten that Sasha and Tyreese, alongside Ben and Allen, had been to the prison before coming to Woodbury. It explains the relative ease with which Sasha had conducted herself with everyone thus far.

Carl nods, smiling at me again before retreating the same way his father and Daryl had left. Sasha and I walk with the girls back towards the cell block, where Ryan is already waiting. He gives me a warm thanks as I say goodbye to Mika and Lizzie, and I am pleased that at least some of the people I know are still treating me as they always have.

I have noticed the stares from the others, the whispers behind hands as I walk past. As far as most of them know, and have known for months, I am Philip’s biological daughter, a lie we started telling when we’d still been on the road and his authority was just beginning to evolve. It had seemed safer, had _been_ safer, to pretend we were a family of three–Philip, Penny and me. The lie had quickly developed into something that felt far more real. In truth, we had always been an unconventional little family, especially after Sarah had died. It barely felt like a stretch to call him ‘Dad’. A position that had once earned me respect in Woodbury, seen me acknowledged with more esteem than I had ever experienced before, now left me as a figure of distain and distrust. I could hardly blame them.

Karen’s gaze slides over me as I pass her on the way back from the edge of the cell block, her mouth tight. She’d been there, survived Philip turning on his own people via sheer dumb luck. It was a story she had recounted, voice haggard, when she, Ty and Sasha had come back to the building the rest of us had been hiding out in. I had been the only one to question her directly, circling my hand around her upper arm and tugging her to me.

_“No, Karen, you saw it wrong. He wouldn’t … You saw it wrong.”_

_“Saw it wrong? What I saw was him massacring our friends,” she hissed, wrenching her arm from my desperate grip. “Your father killed them. All of them.”_

She hasn’t spoken to me since. We had been friends. It stings more than I thought it would, the distance hurting more coming from Karen than from anyone else.

I try to smile at everyone I pass and gauge their reactions. Michonne just looks at me like I’m insane, the others are withdrawn.

The original prison crew, with one red-necked exception, have been nicer to me than my so-called friends have since we had rolled out of Woodbury, and that seems like some sort of cruel irony. The very people that Philip had been telling me to fear, the people with the most reasons to dislike me on principle, are the only ones meeting my eyes or returning my smiles.

It’s for that reason alone that I find myself standing at the fence that encloses the yard, fingers curled into the chain-links, watching the Biters, no, _Walkers_, shambling through the expansive fields that curb the courtyard.

The group had secured this area before, without incident, when they had first arrived at the prison, but the crumpled gates and broken fence, curtesy of Philip, had allowed the previously safe zone to become overrun with infected again.

“Lily?”

I release the fence, heading over to the group gathered in the courtyard. Rick, who had called out to me, goes to hand me fire poker and I stare at him, leaving him standing with the item hanging in his hand.

“What’s all this for?” I gesture to the array of melee weapons laid out on the outdoor table.

“You weren’t listening?”

I follow up my dumb silence with an apologetic smile.

“We need everyone who is staying here to try and take some Walkers down through the fence …” Rick says by way of explanation.

“Ah. And you’ll be?” I ask, and glance around to see who is present in the courtyard. Ryan, Carl, Hershel, Beth, Patrick, even a bunch of our elderly Woodbury members …

“With the other group, driving the bus down to block the gate while we clear the yard.” His voice is clipped.

“So, you want me to take that …” I point to the fire poker still in his hand. “… And then …” I struggle to meet Rick’s eye as he continues to stare at me and worry my lip between my teeth.

“Is everything alright, Lily?”

I exhale a shaky breath and motion for him to step a little closer.

“I can’t kill them,” I say, my voice below a whisper.

“What do you mean you _can’t_?” Rick asks, stressing the word and pulling me further away from the courtyard table that is currently playing host to an arsenal of melee weapons. Carl, pre-teen Carl, is hefting a machete longer than his forearm.

“There a problem?” Daryl asks, popping up next to Rick like he always seems to. My eyes drop to my shoes, getting well acquainted with them now, and I blanch when Rick repeats what I had just told him.

“You some kind of pacifist or something?” Daryl asks, jutting his chin towards me.

“Not really. I just don’t have the stomach for it. I haven’t taken one down before.”

“How is that possible?” Rick asks, voice staccato with shock. His surprise draws the curious glances of every person huddled around the outdoor table.

“It … never came up?” I venture, knowing it’s as weak an excuse as they come. More like I had always had someone else there to do that dirty work for me. Someone being Philip. Then Martinez. Then Merle.

“Well ain’t that fuckin’ typical,” Daryl says, rolling his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” I say, back to looking at my shoes, anywhere but Rick’s gaze.

“We’ll deal with it later, but you’ll have to learn, Lily. We need every able-body we have prepared to fight.”

I blanch again.

“For now …,” Rick glances around him, searching for some elsewhere for me to be. “Why don’t you go back in the cell block. Keep an eye on everyone. You can watch Judith for me.” He finishes the statement, not quite an order, with a tight smile, before turning back to outfitting the other, more useful prison members with appropriate weapons.

I have been dismissed, and I imagine I look about as humiliated and dejected as I feel, my chin practically hitting my chest as I speed-walk towards the cell block. I catch a sneer from Daryl out of my peripheries as I pass him and am only two steps inside the building when I stop and lean against a cool wall, breathing deep to prevent a new wave of sobs that threaten to wrack my frame. Every single person here is pushing themselves to the limit to ensure the safety of the group and I’m incapable of providing aid. A burden.

It hadn’t been a problem in Woodbury. Sure, Merle had laughed and called me “prom queen” or “dainty little flower” on more than one occasion, but it was usually accompanied by a playful pull on my hair or a wide grin to undercut the insult. I had been useful then. Even after Penny … I press my forehead to the stone wall. This isn’t the time to be letting myself fall into that vicious, mental pit. Even after all these months, any time I thought of Penny I would break down. Now Philip and Merle could be added to that list too. And Milton. Haley. Even Andrea who had treated me like she was already my stepmother, which had been darn uncomfortable considering she had little more than decade on me.

I bite the inside of my cheek, refusing to spare any more thoughts for myself or how bad everything has gotten since we left Woodbury and walk the rest of the way into the cell block. It’s quiet and dark inside the building and almost pleasant. I snag Judith from where Ms. McLeod is watching over her and enjoy the soft weight of a baby in my arms as I entertain Lizzie and Mika by recounting fairy-tales I only half remember. It’s a feeble attempt to drown out the yelling and sporadic, gunfire from outside. 

* * *

They managed it, I don’t know how but it had been done. Daryl, Tyreese and Glenn are still outside in the yard, dragging the decaying Walker corpses into the back corner for burning. The bus still blocks off the lower gate access, but the crumped fence and remains of the gate themselves have been straightened and reformed, barricaded with stray panels of metal and wood. It is a temporary measure, but an effective one, that will allow people to work on the gates and fences internally. Carl and Michonne are now on guard duty, standing near the bus and gate. Rick is making a petrol of the fence-line, walking around and around the edge of the field, a high-powered rifle in his grip.

“He did the same thing when we first arrived here,” Hershel says, from somewhere near my elbow.

I’m surveying the activities out on the prison lawn with interest but staying well clear myself. The Walkers, scattered throughout the grass are ripe, their newly acquired, mortal wounds allowing the stench of clotted, pungent blood to permeate the area.

“Must be an odd sense of Deja-vu for you guys,” I say, watching as Rick makes his third turn around the yard.

“We’ll be more secure this time. Safer. Can have people lining the path between the fences every day to take down Walkers from the inside. We can finally start tilling the land, setting up areas for planting. Do you know much about farming?”

I ogle the older man and he smiles.

“Okay, let me rephrase that. Would you like to learn?”

I shrug. “Seems like that would at least be something I can do around here …” I trail off, risking a glance to the courtyard behind me. It’s largely deserted.

Maggie, Sasha and Carol have taken a bunch of the Woodburians to start clearing out cell block D, the one adjacent to C block. It’s free of ‘living’ Walkers at least, but the area needs to be checked for security breaches and the whole block requires a thorough cleaning. Apparently, prison guards had taken it upon themselves to execute the prisoners in their cells, when all of this had first happened. And then Merle had taken to the mattresses with his makeshift knife-hand in a fruitless search for stashed drugs. It will take them the remainder of the day to get the place suitable for residence.

I had considered going with them, of course I had, but the idea of committing to sleeping in a cell block next to people who no longer like nor trust me had turned my stomach. The last thing I want to do is foist myself on people who don’t want me. At this point, asking Sasha if I could continue using her tent and camping out in the courtyard is my preferred option, regardless of how uncomfortable it would be.

Hershel places a tentative hand on my shoulder. “You’ll find your place Lily, this will become a home to you too. Just like it has for all of us.”

“If anyone actually wants me here.” It’s a rare moment of verbal self-pity, I usually avoid articulating my selfish doubts aloud, and I clam up, stepping away from Hershel before he has time to respond.

He doesn’t need this. He has been nothing but welcoming to me. He has a biological family still with him, some small miracle in all of this, and the obvious respect and adoration of everybody else. This thought, of course, just makes me mentally buckle under my own poor-me attitude further and I bolt away from the fence and the elderly man beside it, ignoring his soft call of my name as I retreat into the tent I had shared with my, apparently one and only friend, the night before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Hope you're all enjoying the story. I'll be posting twice weekly until this fic reaches the same amount of chapters as it has over at fanfiction.net, and from then on it will be weekly updates. Don't forget there is a tumblr page over at https://thedevilbesideyouff.tumblr.com/ too.  
L xx


	4. Unstable Terrain

“Come on Lil, I’m not letting you stay out here forever,” Sasha says, poking me in the ribs.

I mumble something that’s meant to be “Get off,” but comes out as an indeterminate huff, my ponytail getting caught in my mouth. I’m on my stomach, stretched across the thin camping mattress and both sleeping bags, my hand supporting my head. I extract it from beneath me to swat away Sasha’s fingers.

“It’s nearly time for dinner, you gotta eat more.”

“I don’t need to. I didn’t even _do_ anything today. Not like you …”

“It’s not your fault you don’t know how to shoot or anything like that, no one’s blaming you for it.”

“Not like they’re blaming me for Philip’s actions, right?”

Sasha falls quiet and I push my hair back from my face as I sit up. She’s kneeling on the edge of my sleeping bag, hands now on her thighs. Her face twitches with an indiscernible emotion.

“It’s hard for them, harder than it is for me and Ty …” She squirms. “We didn’t see you guys together as much. I think they … I _know _they’re worried that you might know more than you are letting on.”

“What? Like I knew he was planning to gun everyone down or something?”

Sasha meets my eye finally and shrugs.

“Oh man, that’s exactly what they think isn’t it?” I kneed my eyes with my fists. Of course, I had worried that the attitudes from those who had previously resided at Woodbury extended beyond concern and fear to outright hate. I had toyed with the idea of what they must think of me and my relationship with Philip. But saying it aloud, having that fear acknowledged by Sasha, is far more painful than I expected. I hiss when a hot tear hits the back of my hand. Just how much can a person cry before they literally die of dehydration?

“It doesn’t matter Lily. Truly, it doesn’t. They’ll come around. They just need time. Hell, we all do. Rick’s invited us to eat in the cell block with them tonight, just the OG prison crew.”

“Us?”

“Yep,” she says, popping the ‘p’. “Even you, despite all your scary emotions.” She stares at my tear-stained face with a goofy smile, softening her verbal jab.

“And despite how miserably I failed at being remotely useful today, don’t forget that.”

“Rick understands, he knows how sheltered you were by the Governor. Like I said, no one thinks you are useless or don’t deserve to be here.”

“I don’t know … You didn’t hear what Daryl was yelling at me yesterday.”

“Mean as a snake that Daryl. Want me to kick his arse?” She grins and I can’t help but smile back, wiping my face on her sleeping bag.

“That really necessary?” Sasha laughs, standing up and offering me a hand.

“Payback for poking my ribs so much. I’m going to be black and blue soon. People will talk …”

“You better not tell them I’m beating on you.” She threatens me with a fist as we exit the tent and I giggle. Trust Sasha to turn my mood around so effectively. Or more specifically, to not relent until she knows I’m okay. She’s stubborn, and I wonder, not for the first time, if she’s a Taurus.

No one is out and about in the courtyard anymore, except for Tyreese and Karen keeping watch by the top gate, the latter of whom turns away as soon as she sees me hopping out of the tent flap after Sasha. I follow my friend through the concreted yard and down the narrow hallway into C block. The main entrance room is empty, but when we head through the barred door that separates the first room from the lines of cells, a dozen heads turn to greet us. A series of trestle tables, all looking a little worse for wear, have been set up in the centre of the large building. It’s reminiscent of a Thanksgiving dinner, everyone seated around the dining table for a feast. Except of course the chairs are all different, mostly camping chairs, and the ‘feast’ appears to be little more than canned goods and rice.

I blush under the inquisitive gazes being thrown my way, thankful for Sasha when she slings an arm over my shoulders and walks me to the two vacant chairs on the closest side of the table. It is unlike me to become shy, or even awkward, in a group setting. Ever the extrovert I had always relished opportunities such as this. That was, however, before I’d become the assumed daughter of the man responsible for the deaths of so many. Before I can make an excuse to wheedle my way out of Sasha’s grasp, she is pushing me into a chair next to Glenn, sandwiching herself on the other side of me.

“Glad you guys could join us,” Rick says with a smile. He is sitting across from Glenn and next to Daryl, who is, of course, opposite me. Rick’s endorsement seems to be enough to have people start eating again, and Carol, sitting at the end of the table next to a metal cart of dishes serves up two plates, passing them down the line to Sasha and me. I accept the food from Glenn, smiling at him in thanks, and the chatter around the table picks up, presumably to how it was before we had interrupted.

I’m picking at the beans and sweet corn when Glenn hands me another dish, a tray bearing strips of some sort of darkened meat, sitting in their own juices.

“Uh, thanks. What is it?” I ask, inspecting a piece on my fork while Sasha slides the tray from in front of me to serve herself before passing it across the table to Daryl.

“Squirrel,” Glenn answers with a grin, just as I am hovering my fork in front of my mouth.

“Really?” It comes out as a squeak and the utensil, squirrel meat still speared on its prongs, falls onto my plate. Glenn’s grin widens when I shiver at the thought of eating what had once been a cute rodent. A soft chuckle from across the table draws my eyes upwards and Daryl pins me with his stare. For a moment, I think I see a touch of humour in his face before the quirk of his lips is replaced with scorn.

“The food I caught not good enough for you? Sorry Princess, we’re fresh out of caviar.” He shovels a forkful of meat into his mouth.

“I don’t think I could stomach fish eggs any better than …” I gesture to the tray now sitting between us. 

“Oh, leave her alone, Daryl,” Maggie says from the other side of Glenn, poking her own fork in Daryl’s direction.

I hadn’t realised our tense conversation was drawing the attention of the other diners, and I squirm in my seat. The man across from me still hasn’t looked away from me, even through mouthfuls of food.

I smile, the brightest one I can muster, the one that I have been told could stop traffic. “I’m sorry, I really didn’t mean to cause any offence. I’m sure it’s lovely.”

I sit there waiting for his reaction, hoping I have managed to neutralise the situation, and Daryl’s eyes practically bug out of his head, a sliver of squirrel hanging from his lip. I give myself a mental high five seeing him staggered, a look of quiet surprise that soon abates, his usual scowl shifting back into place.

“Whatever,” he says with a huff, standing up so quickly it jogs the table. “I’m going to go help Michonne on look out in the tower. Unless you got something to say about that too?” The challenge is addressed to me, and I shake my head and watch him as he rounds the table, leaving the cell block without another word to anyone.

No one else has spoken for some time, I hadn’t even realised, but Sasha nudges my knee with hers and Glenn gives me a sympathetic glance. Hershel, down the other end of the table is watching me as if analysing my reactions.

“Don’t pay him any mind, Lily,” Rick says. “He just lost Merle, guess he’s a bit more volatile than usual.”

“It’s nothing,” I say, trying to convince myself of that as much as I am anyone else and I numbly chew on some more tasteless vegetables. Before long it’s as if Daryl was never even at the table, and quiet chatter recommences undisturbed. I even, for just a few minutes, find myself relaxing, enjoying the easy conversation around me.

* * *

After the meal is over, and I have thanked them for the hospitality, I offer to help Beth and Carol with the dishes and tidying but am waved away.

Sasha squeezes my arm as we are leaving. “I have first watch, but I think I’ll sleep inside tonight,” she gestures to D block. “So, I’ll be by to get my bag and sleeping stuff. You sure I can’t convince you to join me? I snagged us a cell on the end, pretty cosy.” She ends in a little sing-song and I chuckle.

“Hopefully soon, but I think I need a bit more time, you know? You don’t mind me keeping the tent?”

“I know you’re serious because you’re voluntarily camping. Never thought I’d see the day.”

“You and me both,” I say with a sigh.

Sasha waves her goodbyes and struts ahead of me to retrieve her weapons before her watch detail. Rick hasn’t appointed me any specific duties, a fact which makes me both uncomfortable as it further emphasises my uselessness, and relieved that no one’s life is in my hands.

The air outside the stuffy cell block is crisp and I pause to breathe in deeply before making my way towards my tent, now standing solitary in the courtyard. I’m not paying very close attention to where I place my feet, and in the growing gloom of the evening my ankle twists when my foot skitters into contact with loose concrete. I’m down on my hands and knees before I can cry out, my palms smarting from the contact. In an instant, a pair of large worn boots appear in front of me and hands are reaching down to grip my arms and pull me upright. The hands are very large, enough so to fully encircle my upper arms, and very warm and very attached to Daryl, who is looking down at me. I widen the distance between us with a cautious step back and my body language seems to be enough to tell him to back off because he releases me. I glance down at my hands and grimace, even in the limited light I can tell they are scraped raw.

“Who the hell trips over nothing?” he says. It’s brusque, but far more even-tempered than anything he has said to me thus far. He actually sounds amused, and I test another smile out on him, keen to avoid further confrontation.

“Deceptively unstable terrain,” I say by way of explanation and blow a cooling breath onto my right hand, which is hurting the most.

“You gonna let me check those?” Daryl asks. He steps closer as if he is afraid of scaring me off and seems to be waiting for consent before touching me again. I place my hands, palm up, in his much larger ones and he scrutinises them, head cocked to the side.

“You seem to be helping me an awful lot so far,” I point out, wincing when he swipes my wounds with the tips of his fingers to banish some of the dirt and gravel from my tender skin.

“Wasn’t deliberately coming this way to check up on you or anything …”

“Didn’t say you were …”

“When an injured animal crosses your path, you can’t just pass without making sure it doesn’t need to put down first. ‘M not a total arsehole.” He finishes with a scoff, but his face curls in sympathy at my pain when he plies a small stone out of my flesh.

“Yeah, you’re a regular saint.”

“Come on, let’s wash them off.” Daryl tugs me over to the undercover, outside area that is the fixture of the courtyard and summons a dirty looking water bottle from inside the pack that’s slung over his shoulder. I stare at it sceptically.

“Water’s fresh,” he says, uncapping it and holding it above my outstretched hands. I nod once and then gasp when the cool liquid splashes over my skin.

“Mother … flipper,” I bark out, shaking my now wet hands as if to stop the sharp pain.

Daryl cocks an eyebrow and loops his fingers around one of my wrists, bringing my hand closer to his face to inspect it in the dull gloom. It’s well past sunset, but still light enough for him to appraise the damage and he huffs, letting go of my wrist and recapping his bottle.

“Thank you,” I say, gingerly holding my hands away from my body. “I really mean it.”

“Ain’t a thing,” he says. “You got bandages or something? They’re gonna be feeling rough tomorrow.”

“No, but it’s fine.” I tuck my hands into the pockets of my hooded sweatshirt. “Fudge,” I groan as the wounds chafe against the fabric.

“Yeah, it sounds fine,” Daryl says with a low chuckle.

“Nothing worth wasting medical supplies on,” I say with a weak smile to hide my grimace, the heat of my palms radiating in my pockets. “Thanks again, for cleaning me up.”

“Don’t mention it,” he says, sounding like he means it quite literally, and he kicks off the table he had been resting against, crossbow and pack thumping against his back as he heads through the courtyard. He doesn’t say goodbye, but as I make my way to the tent and glance back, I see he is still waiting at the corner of the cell block, gaze trained on me. For whatever reason, he has watched me the whole time. I struggle with the tent zip and my cheeks heat with embarrassment knowing that now Daryl has seen me unable to even open a simple tent flap. I all-but dive onto my sleeping bag when I finally manage to squirm my way into the makeshift home.

I locate my flashlight in my backpack after some painful searching and then attempt getting undressed, which takes far longer than it should. By the time Sasha comes into the tent to grab her pack and sleeping bag, I am a cringing mess and she takes pity on me, rubbing my inflamed hands with an ointment that she had stowed away.

“How in the world did you stack it this hard?”

“I couldn’t rightly tell you,” I say with a groan when she touches a particularly tender part of my hand.

“You did a good job of cleaning them off though …” She raises her face to smile at me and sees my torn expression. “What?”

“Actually,” I pause. “That was Daryl.”

“Daryl Dixon? That Daryl?”

“Yep.”

“The same one who basically follows you around with a murderous glare all the time?”

“The one and only.”

“Wow.”

“I have a theory,” I say, shifting onto my elbows so I’m no longer prone in my sleeping bag. “I think he may hate me because of Merle.”

“Why would he hate you because of Merle? I thought Merle adored you …”

“As much as Merle could _adore _anyone, sure. And you’d normally think that your sibling liking someone was at worst no big deal, at best maybe even an indication that you’ll like them too …”

“Right …” Sasha says, obviously confused.

“But that isn’t the case with Dixons. They’re a rare, weird breed.”

“You’re basing this on stuff Merle said?”

“From everything he told me about Daryl, which was quite a bit, I think the man has had more positive social interactions since the world ended than before it. To say the least.”

“So, you think him knowing that you know this kind of …” She halts to search for a word. “Intimate stuff about him makes him uneasy?”

“That, and me having seen a side of Merle that maybe other people didn’t. Maybe a side even he didn’t get to see. Merle was quite a bit older, wasn’t around a lot. Guess it was a whole dysfunctional thing.”

“So, he’s resentful,” the other woman says, settling down on the camping mattress.

“And probably anxious I’m going to blab all his childhood stories around the prison.”

“Oh, childhood stories!” Sasha’s eyes flash in the torchlight.

“Not happening Williams,” I say with a huff of a laugh. “Shut it down right now.”

“So, hating you because his brother cared about you. Seems ridiculous to me.”

“Like I said, just a theory. Would explain why, even though he grumbled the whole time, he helped me with my hands. And the tent.” I rise so that I am sitting properly, groaning at the contact of my palms on the mattress.

“There is one other thing that would explain all that …” Sasha chuckles.

“What?”

She stares at me and wiggles her eyebrows.

“What?” I ask again, with a whine.

“For real, Lily? He thinks you’re hot.” She prods my ribs, as she so frequently does, and I roll my eyes.

“Ha. Very likely.”

“Come on. You’ve seen you, right? We’re halfway through the apocalypse and you still look like you walked straight out of a photoshoot.”

“No way. He’s so much older than me … and I’m, well let’s be honest, I’m probably not his type.”

It's not that I’m deluded when it comes to my looks. I have always been aware of them, perhaps too aware. My mother, head cheerleader, prom queen, beauty queen that she was had drilled my own beauty and charms into me from day dot. For better or worse. It had just always been something that I took for granted, as privileged as that was. Pretty, rich, white girl. I disagree with Sasha though; my appearance is a far cry from what it once was. My lean curves have given way to a newfound skeletal form and my hair, waist length, lacks its previous lustre. 

“But so what if he finds me ‘hot’?” I say, stressing her term. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

“You’re right. Just means the man has eyes.”

“You flatterer.” We exchange an easy grin and she pats my legs, tossing the crumpled tube of ointment onto my bed. We had looked vaguely creepy in the limited torch-light, I had to admit, but as soon as Sasha departs, I miss her ghoul face. It’s horribly quiet and when sleep finally comes it comes with nightmares that still pale in comparison to reality. Bodies lying in piles on top of one another, crawling and groaning into reanimation before Merle, decayed and bloodied, makes his way to the top of the squirming mass of familiar corpses. He reaches a rotted hand for me, dead eyes rolling as he whispers my name between blackened teeth, and I wake up with a shriek.

It’s going to be another long day. 


	5. Gold Stars for Violence

Every day is a long day. I sweep away rubble, dig up earth, wipe down stains, patch clothes, boil water, help set up drainage and shower systems designed by Ryan, babysit, cook, cry, repeat.

My hands, which took days to stop stinging and even longer to feel normal again after my ridiculous fall, are growing rough from use. All the Walker bodies in the yard have been long disposed of, burned away. The fences have been supported with extra struts and a unique pulley system, and sheets of metal have been implemented for the new gate, which offers far more security than the previous one ever did. Every aspect has been organised by Rick, who somehow divides his time between giving orders, hard labour and going out with others on supply run after supply run. He looks like he could drop dead from exhaustion at any moment.

Michonne comes and goes, and Sasha tells me, with some reluctance, that she is hunting Philip. The thought of Michonne being successful in her pursuit of him fills me with anxiety, but I shove it down inside me. Sometimes Daryl goes with her, although he often returns by himself on his bike, bringing with him food and clothing, but no news of Philip as Michonne continues to search. Every day various people, the ones who aren’t cooking, cleaning or gardening, line the fences armed with melee weapons to skewer the Walkers who gather beyond the chain-link. Those people are not me.

* * *

Patrick groans as his glasses slide off his nose, skittering into the dirt while he pinwheels his arms and balks at the last second, unable to complete the cartwheel.

“I can’t do it, Lily,” he says, a hint of frustration in his voice. Beth and Hershel are gardening nearby, with Judith cooing on a blanket by their feet, and they look up to smile at Patrick. “I just can’t get my arms over my head.”

“You’re psyching yourself out, overthinking it.” I show him again, at normal speed, and then once more bit-by-bit, breaking down the few, simple stages. “Go on, try again.”

Patrick hands his glasses to me, sucks in a breath, and does a cartwheel. It’s sloppy but his grin when he lands back on his feet is ecstatic. I clap him on the shoulder and hand him back his glasses.

“Think you could teach me next?” Hershel asks with a grin.

“Oh, come on Hershel. Advanced class for you. You could do one of these,” I say, jumping into a neat tuck. “Or a couple of layouts.” I perform the trick, sending a clod of dirt flying with my left foot when I land. Dirt which hits Daryl in the stomach.

Beth gasps and erupts into giggles, and Patrick, looking intimidated by the man stammers an excuse and all-but runs away.

“I’m sorry,” I say, smiling to hide, or perhaps because of, my discomfort. I haven’t spoken a word to Daryl in weeks, since he helped me with my hands, and now here he is, and I have just kicked dirt all over him.

He frowns, but then glances over my shoulder. “Worse things on it than that,” he says after a beat, looking down at his shirt with a shrug. His lack of irritation is surprising, until I turn back and see Hershel behind me, leaning on his spade and shooting Daryl a warning look that had obviously contributed to Daryl quelling his temper.

“Rick sent me down here, tomorrow a whole bunch of us are going to secure the prison, the other side where it’s all knocked down. Gonna need your help.”

I blink, thinking for a moment he is addressing Beth and Hershel before realising he means me.

“What?” I say, gulping as a wave of fear overcomes me. “Can’t I just help with the kids or …?”

Daryl shakes his head. “Been slacking off long enough, Princess. Gonna have to get those hands dirty sooner rather than later.”

My hands are dirty right now, quite literally, from the acrobatics and prior to that, planting the rows of corn, but I wipe my palms on the seat of my jeans and sigh.

Hershel and Beth have averted their eyes, busying themselves with smiling at Judith and examining the lines of recently overturned earth.

They know all about this issue, Hershel himself having spoken to me about his initial reluctance to dispatch Walkers, his experience of keeping them alive and hanging onto the useless threads of hope that humanity lingered behind their dead eyes.

I'd sympathised with his tragic story, the loss of his wife, stepson and friends he had held dear and I had been ashamed to reveal that my unwillingness to take a Walker down was solely due to my own cowardice. My weak will and weaker stomach. I’d barely even eaten meat, back before the end of the world, a self-proclaimed ‘flexitarian’ who couldn’t stand to watch horror movies or see blood from even the most minor of injuries. The day I had gotten my nose pierced, a whim due to a friend’s jovial pressure, I’d fainted.

In truth, there weren’t many things about this harsh new existence I _could_ handle, and I’d spent my first few days of treating Merle’s ruined stump running to and from the bathroom to be ill. Eventually, like with all things, the reality of living in an _actual_ horror movie had forced me to build up a tolerance to bodily fluids and injuries, the mere sight of a bite or gunshot wound no longer sending me reeling and retching.

Committing an act of violence, however, pulling a trigger or raising a weapon, still seemed far beyond my capabilities.

When Daryl shoots me a glare, I realise he’d said something I hadn’t paid any attention to, and he sighs when I ask for clarification.

“I said we gotta get you killing Walkers, at least handling a weapon …”

“Now?” I flash a look towards Hershel, willing him to come to my rescue. The elderly man shrugs and gives me a small, encouraging smile.

“You can do it Lily …”

“I didn’t think I could at first either,” Beth offers in support, “but I could. And I did.”

I turn back to Daryl, noting his impatient stare and steel my shoulders in resignation, realising there is no real way out of this without incurring Daryl’s now familiar ire.

I groan. “Fine. But if I puke then it’s your fault.”

Daryl’s lip moves in the ghost of a smirk and he walks away, obviously expecting me to follow him. 

I wave goodbye to the Greenes, and catch up to Daryl across the yard, his quick, wide-legged gait forcing me to almost jog to keep pace with him.

“This doesn’t really seem fair, or necessary,” I whinge once I’m at his elbow.

“If you didn’ notice, we’re short on able bodies right now. Plenty of old ladies to watch the kids, plenty of old men to plant vegetables …”

“Still, this is pretty high risk. You really think that I can go in and fight like you guys? Like Glenn, or Sasha? If I mess up, _when_ I mess up, it could get someone killed …” It’s part a voicing of my own fears, part tactic to dissuade him from forcing me to shove something into a skull, but Daryl nods in acknowledgement.

“Said the same thing to Rick.”

“Oh.” That shuts me up quick. Of course, he has thought that, he’s done nothing but echo my own self-doubts since day one, and yet, his easy agreement still nips at the remains of my confidence.

We near the access gate that will take us to the outer pathway around the prison. It’s Tyreese and Carol on guard duty, and Ty acknowledges us with a friendly smile. Carol is staring in a more fixed manner, with a judgement that speaks of curiosity, head tilted to the side and all. I wiggle my fingers at her, and flinch when Daryl tucks his hand around my upper arm, dragging me away from the gate and Carol’s searching gaze.

“You gotta do this, now. There ain’t no choice here. It ain’t easy the first time, the second, the third. You just gotta do it. No one’s looking out for you like you’re special anymore. No more Governor …” He pauses. “No more Merle neither.”

It's the first time he’s mentioned his brother around me since the day we arrived at the prison, and while his sentiments sting, he _is_ right, I don’t have a knight in shining armour anymore. The sheer fact that he is attempting something like encouragement and prepared to even hint at the friendship that Merle and I had shocks me into a curt nod.

“Yeah …”

“Okay?”

I suck in a breath. “Okay.”

“Good.” Daryl claps a hand on my shoulder, hard enough for my knees to buckle and then he is striding back towards the gate, saying something to Ty and Carol. The chain is released, and we slip through the swinging gate with just enough time for Tyreese to wish me luck.

No one is working on the fence line today, a rarity. The outside is sparsely littered with sluggish Walkers, teeth gnashing on metal, and a steady build-up of corpses. They are collected, when it’s clear enough to do so, and dragged away to be burned well outside the perimeter, but it hasn’t been done for a while and bodies line the fence in a barricade of rotting flesh.

Daryl stops in front of one solitary Walker. A woman, standing a little taller than me even while shambling. Her skin is greyed and sagging away from her face and neck as if it’s too loose for her. She still looks remarkably fresh for a corpse.

“This one will do,” Daryl says with a grunt, yanking a knife from the sheath at his belt that then feels too heavy in my sweating palm when he hands it to me.

“Hold it like this,” he readjusts my fingers, “can use both hands if you need to. You’re gonna want to go through the eye, that’s easiest. Temple or back of the head do in a pinch. Keep going ‘til you meet air on the other side.”

His words sicken me, and I tense as the woman, what was once a woman, notices us, idling closer to the chain-link, her groans low and corrupted with spittle. I can almost feel the colour drain from my face when she reaches her gnarled fingers through the fence. 

Daryl sighs when I fail to move any closer to the Walker and stands behind me. His arms encircle me to take hold of shaking hands in his, tightening my grip on the knife I had barely been holding onto.

“Come on. You can do this.” His breath is hot on the back of my neck, exposed with my hair tied up, and I shiver.

“I don’t think I can …”

“’M right here, ain’t gonna let anything happen to you. You can do it,” Daryl says, pressing me forward with his chest until I am within easy reach of the scrabbling Walker, her movements peaking at my proximity to her. Daryl hands train mine, guiding me through the motions as the knife lunges through the fence. At the last moment, he releases me, one last ghost of a breath on my ear, and the final plunge is my own. I don’t even have time to stop, and through the hilt of the knife I feel the give of her gelatinous eye beneath the blade, the crunch of brittle tissue. My eyes smart and nostrils sting when the smell of her dark blood hits me. I have the good sense to withdraw the knife but can’t make my legs move as the woman’s body slumps forward, sliding down the chain-links to join the other random corpses on the ground.

“Hey,” Daryl says, his voice so low I hardly hear it over the rushing in my ears and I feel him extract the weapon from me, my grip on it so tight he has to pry my fingers off it one by one. “You did it. You okay?”

Suppressing a wave of nausea, I step backwards, my feet stumbling over the stone lined ground. Daryl grabs my shoulder to steady me, his eyes scanning over my face hinting at concern.

“Lily?” He asks. The use of my name like a foreign word on his lips drags my head upwards.

“Can’t believe you made me do that. That was so disgusting.”

He grins, swiping some strands of hair from his face. “Yeah, but you did it. Even when you didn’t think you could.”

“Great, so I graduate from Daryl Dixon’s Slaying School then, huh? Full marks and everything?”

“Ain’t got no gold star to give you.”

I huff before smiling at him, his own smirk crinkling his blue eyes. It changes his face, even the hint of an expression that isn’t a scowl, and beneath the grime and sweat I notice, with some reticence, that he is far more handsome than I’d given him credit for. Sure, the biceps, I’d certainly noticed, even admired in a begrudging way, but the rest of him I had quite deliberately ignored.

“What? Something on my face?” He says, and I blanch, knowing I’ve been staring at him for too long.

“Sorry, it’s nothing.”

He grunts and wipes the knife off on a rag pulled from his back pocket, before sheathing it and gesturing for me to come with him, heading back towards the gate.

My stomach is still roiling, and I cross my arms over my body, willing myself not to gag when the smell from the shuffling Walkers somehow seems stronger on the way back.

“I look like my mum,” Daryl says, after a few moments of silence.

“Pardon?”

“You were staring at me back there, and I know I don’t look like Merle much.” His eyes are cast down, following the line of his steps that crunch over the stones. “That’s ‘cause he looked like our dad and I …”

“Look like your mum,” I say for him, surprised and touched that he would assume my thoughts like that and then go on to volunteer personal information. He nods and we keep walking.

“Me too, I took after my mum. She used to love it when people would call us sisters, get all flattered,” I say, laughing at the absurdity of something like that occurring nowadays.

Daryl scoffs, almost a chuckle, and I warm at the idea that maybe he doesn’t dislike me so much after all. Just maybe.

“They were really young when they had me, I was a prom baby,” I say.

“That happened a lot in my hometown …”

I’m secretly thrilled at him continuing to talk about himself and his life and press on.

“My parents were the only ones in theirs. Absolutely mortified their families, of course. They ‘did the right thing’ as my dad put it,” I continue, making air quotes with my fingers. “Got married as soon as they graduated, pretended like it was planned the whole time …”

“No brothers or sisters?”

I bite my lip, thinking of Penny. “No. None.” There is an edge to finality in my voice I didn’t intend, and I internally curse at myself when Daryl nods, letting the conversation fade without any indication of being re-established.

“How’d you go?” Tyreese asks when we go back through the gate that he is holding open for us. “You alright?” He nudges me gently and I smile up at him.

“She did good,” Daryl says, squeezing past us.

“Oh yeah? That’s great Lil,” Ty says with a quick hug of my shoulders. “You should go tell Sasha.”

“I only took down _one_ of them, Ty, with a lot of help from Daryl,” I shrug, and Carol meets my eyes.

“It’s a first step, now you just have to keep doing it.” Her tone is serious, although not unkind, but she is still looking between Daryl and I as if figuring out a difficult puzzle.

“Come on, I’ll walk you back up,” Daryl says, looking towards the prison buildings.

“Yeah, okay. Thanks guys.” I smile at them both and walk beside Daryl, the closing of the gate behind us and some quiet chatter between Carol and Tyreese drowned out by our footsteps.

“And thank you, too,” I say, bumping my arm against Daryl’s.

“For what?”

“You really did help me back there. I wouldn’t have done it, if you hadn’t helped.” I’d barely acknowledged it at the time, but his fingers over mine while I had held the knife had been rough and warm in equal measure, completely dwarfing my own hands.

“That was the point. Just had to get you started. You did it in the end.” He says with a shrug. “And you’re going to have to do it again tomorrow.”

“Will you be there?” I ask and he stares at me with hard eyes.

“Yeah, I’ll be there, but my hands ain’t going to be on yours then Princess.”

I flush. He had caught me out. “But you think I can do it anyway?”

“Doesn’t matter what I think,” Daryl says, “matters what you think.”

“Guess we’ll see how it goes tomorrow then.”

We reach the courtyard gate, Carl seeing us inside with a funny tip of his hat, and then stand for a moment. It’s a nice day, and there are plenty of people outside, avoiding the stark solitude of the cells and tombs.

“You do care though, right? ‘Bout what I think?” Daryl side-eyes me and a muscle in his jaw flexes.

“I tend to care about what others think for me,” I reply, evading the specificity of his question before adding, trying to make it sound casual. “But maybe I care about the opinion of some more than others. Merle meant a lot to me, I would hate for his only brother to think I’m pathetic …”

Daryl’s eyes widen, stunned by my admission. There is a long, awkward pause, and I shift on my feet, going to turn away from him when he finally speaks.

“I know how Merle felt about you, what he thought of you.”

“You do? How?”

“Told me. Seems like Merle turned into a real gossip, telling everybody ‘bout everyone …”

“He definitely had a big mouth,” I say with a short laugh. “What did he say?”

Daryl seems to be mulling it over. He rubs his chin but then shakes his head after a beat. “You do what you need to do tomorrow, and I might tell you.”

“Might, huh? Not much incentive.”

“Tell you this part for free,” Daryl steps closer, ducking so his head is near my ear. “He mentioned your legs.”

“My legs?” I flush again. “Oh god, knowing Merle I don’t want to hear the rest of that particular titbit. He was such a pervert.” I shove Daryl away and almost miss his quiet chuckle. “And on that mortifying note, I’m going to get out of here. Thanks again for the lesson.”

“Probably gonna have to teach you everything …” He says in a tone that sounds far less grouchy than I have come to expect from him.

“Well, you get me some gold stars and then we’ll see.” I grin at him and turn back to the cell blocks, well and truly worn out from another day of emotional whiplash featuring Daryl Dixon.


	6. Tourniquet

I slump onto the bunk Sasha and I share in D block, having moved in with her after my third night camping on too-hard ground in the courtyard. The bunk mattresses are a far cry from the springy pillow-top I’d owned back in Woodbury, but still preferable to concrete floor thinly veiled by tent plastic. Plus, sharing a room with Sasha is kind of nice. Almost like being back at college in my old sorority house. Almost.

“Pretty sure I still have skin under all this,” she says, entering the cell after me and appraising her arms.

“You should probably get cleaned up,” I say, Sasha nodding in agreement before she joins me on my bed. I’d skipped the shower in favour of a quick rinse of the dirtiest parts of my body in a water tub outside, but I had still changed my clothes before hopping into bed. Sasha has not extended my sheets the same curtesy and I grimace.

“You did good today, Maggie told me,” she says, patting my leg.

“I didn’t do anything they didn’t, a good deal less in fact.”

That was the truth of the matter. Really, my presence had contributed little to the action we had taken earlier that day.

The tombs had been so quiet and dark that every collective breath echoed throughout them. We’d gone in as two groups, Rick, Maggie, me, Carol and Glenn in one with Daryl, Sasha, Karen, Tyreese and Ryan making up the other. The idea was to claim, or in several cases, reclaim the remaining cell blocks and rooms such as the cafeteria, the gym, and the offices that had been reserved for prison staff. Being successful meant we’d effectively have the rest of the prison clear for our use. The corridors that lead to the back half of the prison, which was still down and allowed a steady stream of undead to roam the prison halls, would be cordoned off for now, with those doors chained and reinforced.

After our two groups diverted, we had worked quickly, moving from room to room, dark corridor to corridor. We’d been equipped with flash lights and armed with knives and bats, and those who could use them, handguns, but the weight of a weapon in my hand had done little to alleviate my anxiety. Daryl had been the one to pass me my knife before we had entered the tombs, giving me a small, tight smile when my hand had shaken while accepting it.

In the end I needn’t have been so nervous, my group had sheltered me in the middle of our pack and the most I’d had to do was push a few stinking Walkers in the chest and help hold doors closed while they were sealed.

Maggie had grumbled that it would take weeks to get the place cleaned up when we’d dragged another body out into the courtyard to be burned later. That had been a task I had assisted with, and by the end of the day I was as tired and filthy as everyone else. But the tombs were secured, no stone left unturned, and we’d even discovered the prison’s remarkably well-stocked library, which alone made the whole venture worth it.

“You didn’t run away, you were there with us. You didn’t get scared. Give yourself some credit,” Sasha says, drawing me back to the present and the muck she is smearing over my bed.

“You’re too kind to me,” I say with a grin, rolling off the bed and groaning. “Alright, now you really do need to get clean. Look at my sheets!” I lament, gesturing to the off-white cotton now smudged with dust and dirt.

“Fine, Miss Prissy,” she says with a grin, rubbing her hands over the top of my blanket for good measure.

“You know, I was just having some nice thoughts about bunking with you. I take that all back now. You’re the worst.”

“I know.” She plants a kiss on the side of my head and leaves, grinning at me again. Her positivity is always infectious, her kindness welcome, and even as I am swiping what dirt I can from my mattress I’m smiling.

* * *

“So, once you’ve gathered your supplies, tourniquet, bandage, gauze, catheter and so on, you prepare the IV tubing. Suspend it like this …” Hershel indicates the stand and the line, and I follow his motions. “That’s right. Now you start filling that tubing with the saline solution, check for bubbles. That’s looking good. What do you do if bubbles form?”

“Tap or squeeze?”

Hershel nods. “You can uncoil the tubing to its full length if necessary, run the roller valve up to the drip chamber, puncturing the IV bag and pinching the drip chamber. When you open the roller valve and release the line the fluid should be flowing the length of the tubing without bubbles, and that will do the job.”

We mime the next part, not wanting to waste the fluid as he talks me through selecting a suitable catheter and finding veins.

“Where on a child?”

“Hand, foot or scalp,” I reply.

“And adult?”

“Longer veins in extremities, not near joints and furthest from the body.”

“You’re learning quick …”

“I watched Milton a few times,” I say with a shrug, but the truth is I’m surprised at my own ability to retain the information that I’m being exposed to.

He lets me tie the tourniquet on his arm, ensuring I’ve secured it at the appropriate spot and tightening the rubber cord, prompting me to let his arm hang limp towards the floor to increase the blood flow.

“Gloves on first if you have them spare, you swab the site and then …”

“I would insert the needle into the catheter.”

“Then the needle, bevel up, into the skin. Good. Show me.”

“What?” My gaze moves jarringly from the catheter in my hand to Hershel’s face. He is leaning back in the chair in the office next to the infirmary, our newly appointed medical clinic.

“No IV. We can do the rest.”

“Waste of a needle …”

“Best way to learn.” He points to the supplies. “Swab the site, go on.”

I sigh and palpate the vein bulging in his arm and swab it with an alcohol wipe I open.

“Alright, prepare the catheter. That’s it …”

I do so, willing my hands to not shake. It’s just an IV needle. Just a vein. Just Hershel. I gulp.

“Hey, you can do this. I trust you.” His kind eyes crinkle with a smile and I attempt one in response.

Bringing his arm up onto the arm of the chair, I stabilise it with my left hand, and with a deep breath insert the needle just under the skin, using the shallow-angled approach we’d run through a dozen times. There is an immediate flashback of blood in the catheter hub and I exhale my breath with a giggle.

“Perfect, now one centimetre more.” He seems unfazed by the needle in his arm and I do as he prompts. His arm tenses a little below my wiggle of the needle.

“Sorry.”

“No need to apologise. You’re doing well. What would you do next?”

“Uh, draw the needle back slowly while advancing the catheter and …” I pause.

“You know this.”

“Yeah, right. Um, once the cannula is seated, I would remove the tourniquet and then secure the catheter with a bandage. Then remove the needle and insert the tubing, securing it in the catheter and then securing the IV line.” I quote his previous directives almost verbatim and his smile widens.

“See, what did I tell you?” Hershel says, helping me remove the needle and catheter from his arm and disposing of the needle into the nearby sharps box. “You’ve got this.”

“I have a good teacher.”

“I’m blessed with an excellent student,” he says, letting me blot and band-aid his pinprick injection site.

“Shush.”

“You know for someone who appears so confident you sure have trouble taking a compliment.”

“I guess there was only a few things I ever got complimented on, before. My supposedly innate ability to memorise a bunch of medical text wasn’t one of them.”

“Just your looks then,” Hershel says with understanding and I shift on my feet.

“I was always so … vain before, you know? I didn’t think of it like that. But that’s all I was. That’s all I cared about. Went to college for cheerleading, hardly cared about my studies because I had my scholarship anyway. Modelled and danced in my spare time. It’s embarrassing to think now, how I wasted my life …”

“I was an alcoholic for most of my adult life, Lily. Nearly drank myself to death more times than I can count. _That’s_ wasting a life. And I got a second chance, _many_ second chances. I got my family, my friends, even these damn crutches.” He gestures to them, resting beside the chair. “You’re young, you’re smart and capable, and maybe because of all that time you apparently wasted, you’re strong and fit enough to learn anything you put your mind and body to. As far as I can see the only thing holding you back from that is you.”

“Too wise for your own good Hershel,” I say with a solemn shake of my head.

“Just helping, my dear. You’re finding your place, like I said.”

* * *

I had been trying, at least. Karen still won’t look at me, even though I know Sasha has spoken to her several times about just talking things through. Since my relocation into the cell block, however, the others who had been reticent about me have begun to treat me with more friendliness. Now it was almost as it had been at Woodbury, and I didn’t feel like I was walking on eggshells around the people I thought would continue distrusting me. It helped that Rick had spoken to me, on several occasions. Question after question about Philip before and during Woodbury, focusing on anything I could tell them that might help locate him. I was little help, he’d always kept me as far away from that kind of information as possible, but my willingness to cooperate and, in the eyes of my friends, sell out my once father figure, did not go unnoticed. The last time Rick and I had spoken about it, in C block with a map rolled out on the table between us, Daryl had been there too.

_“We started here, just outside Atlanta,” I poke my finger at the map and Daryl circles the town I indicate. _

_“And you headed towards Fort Benning originally?” Rick asks. We’ve been through it, a couple of times, but he wants every spot we lingered at marked down for reference. The possibility that Philip would return to anywhere we’d been was remote, but at Michonne’s insistence a chart of our movements was to be drawn up. _

_I hum in confirmation and point to three areas along the way._

_“Here?” Daryl asks, indicating the last place my finger jabbed. “We went through there too, ain’t nothing there.”_

_“I played navigator while we drove, I’m pretty sure. That’s the highway we turned off from, when we met Martinez. He’d been to Fort Benning, that’s how we found out it was gone …”_

_“Then you headed up this way?” Rick asks, and I trace the roads with my fingertips, yanking the pen from Daryl’s fingers. He grunts and I smile my apology and draw along the map. _

_“This was where Milton lived. And this, this is where we found Merle.”_

_“Straight shot from Atlanta.”_

_“Uh huh. We’d had to double back, after Benning was out. He hadn’t gotten very far. Was nearly bled out on the side of the road.”_

_“You said Milton helped him?” Daryl asks, his interest peaked. _

_“Yeah, and me a bit too I guess.” I squirm in my seat. “I’m O negative, universal donor. I gave him a decent amount of my blood before I took over his care. Milton and Merle didn’t get along too well.” Daryl seems shocked, mouth slack as he leans forward in his chair. _

_“You did that for him?”_

_“Sure, no big deal,” I say with a shrug. It had been a big deal in fact, Milton had advised against it given how exhausted we all were by that point. But I hadn’t been able to let Merle die like that, even before I’d met him properly. It had been enough to initially cement our friendship, and a favour he had returned over and over. _

_Daryl is still staring at me with an indeterminable expression, but Rick motions to the map. _

_“So, it was just Woodbury after that?”_

_“Yeah. We didn’t have enough people to take it at the time, Merle was still recovering. So, we holed up in an apartment nearby for a while and did supply runs from there. More people were found, walls were built up, you know the rest.” I look away from Rick to deliver this information, but I can still feel his gaze on me and squirm again. _

_“Hopefully this gives Michonne what she needs,” Rick says, taking the map from the table to fold it up. “Thank you, Lily.” He claps a hand on my shoulder and leaves in a hurry. _

_“Is it just me, or is he looking way too worn out nowadays?” I ask once I can no longer hear his footsteps and slide out of my chair. Daryl follows me, kicking his own chair back into place with the side of his boot._

_“Takes on too much, always has.”_

_“He needs to learn how to relax …”_

_“Maybe we’ll all get that chance soon.”_

_“Don’t really see you as the type to sit around and twiddle your thumbs,” I joke, “Rick either.”_

_“Not you, bet I see you in a few days out there,” he inclines his head, “sunbathing or dancing around …”_

_“You’re a bit of jerk, you know that?” _

_“Nicest thing anyone’s called me, Princess.” He nudges me in the direction of the cell-block door, the hint of a smile on his face. “Go on. Go out and have a little dance or whatever you do.”_

* * *

“Did you have something do to with that?” I ask Hershel, coming up behind him as he inspects the just budding tomatoes we’d planted. He follows my finger to Rick, leaning on a shovel and wiping sweat off his brow. He hasn’t left the prison in weeks. His face is freshly shaved, and he looks like he may have gained some much-needed weight. I have seen him around, smiling and laughing, holding his daughter.

He isn’t the only one who has been changing, becoming perceptibly happier. The atmosphere of the prison has continued to brighten, some oppressive cloud that we hadn’t even realised was still there having lifted once the rest of the prison had been made safe. The biggest surprise of all had been the arrival of more people, brought by Rick and scouting crews, and some by Daryl and Michonne. Usually in small groups. Families, a young doctor named Caleb. New people, good people. It’s changing everyone for the better.

“I might have told him it was time to take a few breaths,” Hershel says.

“Well overdue I’d say. Good move, you’re helping him.”

“Man has worked himself to the bone for us. We’re letting him have a rest, him and Carl both. There’s going to be a council. Me, Glenn, Sasha, Carol, Daryl …”

“A change of leadership?”

“We’ll all share the load, ease the burden.”

“Let me know if there’s anything that I can do …”

“You’re doing plenty, Lily. More than you know. I saw Daryl smile the other day, maybe the first one since the day Judith was born.”

“Oh, but I didn’t … I didn’t have anything to do with that,” I argue, stunned as I shake my head.

“Lily, he was smiling _at_ you. You were dancing with Beth and Judith, over there,” he says with a gesture towards the open area of the yard. “Making Judith laugh. And Daryl was up here at the gate, staring right at you.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Like I said, haven’t seen the man smile in months. Don’t underestimate the good you are doing just by being here. I’m not the only one helping others.”

* * *

A knock on the outside bars of my cell startles me. I’d been pouring over yet another medical text, this one procured from the library rather than a simple by-the-numbers manual that Hershel and I had initially found in the infirmary, and it is far more in-depth, and confusing, than I’d anticipated a prison library tome to be.

“Can I come in?” A female voice says from behind the sheet curtain Sasha and I had rigged up. “It’s Carol.”

“Oh, sure thing.” I sit up, straightening my shirt as she parts the curtain and steps inside. “Hi, Carol. How are you?”

“I’m fine, thank you Lily. Is Sasha around?”

“She’s on guard duty if you are looking for her, in the tower …” Carol’s head shake stops me. I can see her small smile in the dim solar camp light that Sasha found for us.

“May I sit?” She indicates the one chair in the room, tucked under a card table desk in the corner and I nod, swinging my legs to the side of my bunk so I’m facing her.

“Is something wrong?”

“I overheard you and Hershel talking today,” she says, matter of fact.

“About the … council?” Had that been privileged information that I wasn’t meant to be privy to?

“Yes, but that’s not why I’m here.” She rubs her neck and glances up at me. “It’s about Daryl.”

“Daryl?” I lean forward. “Is he okay?”

Carol smiles. “I’m sure he’s just fine. It’s nothing like that. I …” She stands up, pacing the length of the cell as I track her with my eyes. “I’ve known Daryl a long time, Lily. Since almost the start of all this. He’s done things for this group, for me especially, that no one else has or could have. I care about him a lot.”

“Okay …” I say, my mind working at a furious rate as I attempt to follow her line of thinking.

“I know you knew Merle, had a friendship with him. But you never saw him with Daryl, the way their relationship was. It was poison to him.”

I start to protest, but she silences me with a raised hand.

“Like I said, you never saw them together. And I never saw Merle with you, granted. It seems that you were exposed to a whole other Merle that none of us were, perhaps even Daryl himself. But it’s because of that that you can’t know just how damaged Daryl is, or the things he’s been through.”

“I mean, Merle told me about their dad and how he treated them, and about how he wasn’t home very much once he got old enough to be anywhere else.”

“He admitted that?” She asks, surprise evident in the rise of her voice.

“He … had a lot of regrets.”

Carol makes a humming sound of agreement and perches on the chair again. “Hershel was right, Lily. I’ve seen the way Daryl looks at you too, how he’s been smiling more than ever lately. It’s because of you, and frankly I think you could affect him just like Merle did.” She finishes in a rather hasty manner, and I frown, musing over her words.

“Wait, you think Daryl … is interested in me?”

She nods.

“Come on, Carol. What is this? High-school? I’m _sure _that he isn’t, I mean, he is so much older than me for one thing, but even if he was, it’s …” I wave my hand, “it’s whatever, right? No big deal.”

“This is what I mean. You can’t possibly understand what this would be for him, what it would mean to him.”

I scoff. “Carol, I don’t know who you think I am, but I’m not exactly in the habit of going around and playing mind-games with people. Daryl’s a grown man …”

“He’s not a normal grown man …”

“And” I continue, my frown deepening, “you’re basing all of this on a few random looks. They could mean anything, or nothing.”

“Lily,” she crosses the floor, kneeling in front of me as I gasp in shock at her sudden movement. “_I_ know what it means. It’s the beginning of something, for him. Maybe for you. I just don’t want him to get hurt.”

“I don’t want that either.”

She searches my eyes and nods, sitting back on her feet for a huff of breath before standing.

“I believe you.”

“I honestly don’t know what you are so worried about Carol, the man thinks I’m pretty much an idiot.” I grin.

“He’s thinking and feeling different things right now, but you’ll see. I’m right about this.”

“Okay Carol,” I say, with an eyeroll softened by my smile, and she exits without goodbye.

People must be going stir-crazy, locked up in this prison too long with nothing to do but gossip and create day-time-soap-opera storylines to amuse themselves. It had happened at Woodbury, too. The amount of rumours I’d heard about myself and Merle was astounding, and it strikes me as funny that once again I am being romantically linked to a damn Dixon. Despite blowing Hershel’s suggestions off, and now dismissing Carol too, their words have instilled flickers of something in me, curiosity, perhaps, or even longing. The hint of a desire that maybe what they’re saying is true and there is something to the way Daryl looks at me. I snort at my own thoughts and lie back down on my bunk, determined to forget all about certain steel-blue eyes and focus instead on page after page of almost nonsensical medical jargon. In the end I’m only partially successful.


	7. Cheerleader Girl

“You’re getting better at that,” Michonne says from behind me, and I freeze with the knife in my hand, the blade stuck halfway through the head of the Walker slumped against the fence. I retract the weapon and flick a line of gore across the stones.

“Better at it?”

“Well, you don’t look like you’re going to faint, so that’s a start.”

“Are you cracking jokes with me, Michonne?” I smirk. “That almost sounded like you were.”

“Oh, I meant it. But sure, call it a gesture of good will.”

There are only a few of us on fence duty today. It isn’t a task I relish by any means, and my kill count is way under par, but Michonne is right, I have gotten better at it. It has become easier, but never easy.

“There’s no sign of him, is there?”

I don’t really need to ask. If she is in here, rather than out there, it can only mean one thing. No tracks, no trail, no Philip.

“You shouldn’t keep going out there,” I continue, “the people here need you. Carl misses you when you’re gone, and when you aren’t here,_ I_ have to read the comics after him. So, he has someone else to talk to about them.”

“Such a burden.” She barks out a laugh.

“Superheroes aren’t my thing.” I shrug and step away from the fence when I smell rancid breath too-close behind me, another looming Walker. I wipe a trickle of sweat from my brow and steady my resolve, readying myself to take this one down as well, but Michonne steps in, drawing her crazy Samurai sword and dispatching it through the metal fence. Its growls die on parched lips and it falls on top of the one I had just felled.

“Look like you could use a break. Come on.” She gestures back to the prison, and with one last look at the others, still busy along the fence-line, I dog her steps, jogging to catch up.

“I’m doing okay, you know? Adjusting to life after Woodbury, I don’t need to take breaks.”

“I know. You’re doing better than I expected.”

“I feel like when it comes to me your expectations are pretty low …”

Her eyes slide to my face as we walk in tandem up to the gate, waiting for it to be opened for us before passing through with nods to those on guard duty.

We’ve been at the prison for four months now, according to Beth, who has kept track of days almost religiously. She has even had a little calendar drawn up, listing everyone’s birthdays and important dates, which had struck me as the sweetest act of humanity I had seen in a while. It feels like a home, albeit a grittier one than I would have liked, and new people have been joining almost steadily for the last few weeks, the latest additions a small group of college students who had been road tripping when the world fell apart.

One of them, Zach, had recognised me from sporting events that had pitted our football teams against one another, and had called out “Cheerleader girl!” across the prison yard when he’d seen me. The presence of someone from my previous life, even if I had never known them personally, had been jarring and I had avoided the college kids since in some pathetic attempt to seem like an actual apocalyptic badass.

Before Rick had retired from his active, and external prison duties, he and Daryl had devised a simple testing system to ensure that those who joined the prison were, by and large, good people. So far it has been successful, and other than the odd small spat, or work-related injury, things inside the walls have been almost peaceful. Occasionally people don’t come back from supply runs or recruiting missions and that only further instils the idea of prison equals good, outside equals bad. Which is why I am so reactive to Michonne’s enquiry about me joining her and Glenn on a run.

“I’m sorry, what?” I say, my words exhaled with a shaky breath.

Michonne raises a shaped eyebrow.

“Basic, routine supply run. You’re light on your feet, we all know that. You can defend yourself now if need be. And we need medical supplies, as many as we can find. You can help there. Hershel tells me he’s taught you everything he can with our limited resources. I saw that job you did on Henry’s arm the other day, when he got cut. So, like I said, we could use you out there.” She stops to survey my expression before adding, “And more importantly, you need to learn to be okay out there too.”

I huff, a brief sense of pride at her almost-praise. I _had_ done a pretty good job with Henry’s stitches, overseen by Hershel and Caleb of course, and what had been a nasty metal-inflicted cut from the construction of a shed for the pigs had become a neat line of sewing under my hands. She’s right too, I’m okay in here, but I have no idea how to cope beyond these walls.

“So, it’s kind of a trial run for me then?”

“That’s right.”

“You cleared it with the council?” I ask, chewing my lip. We have stopped walking somewhere in the centre of the yard and Michonne nods, tilting her head in the would-be farmer’s direction while he tends to a new line of crops.

“I spoke to Rick, and Hershel’s on board. All the backing I need.”

“You’re sure about this?”

“You’re ready.” She gives me the hint of a smile.

“I really don’t feel it …”

“Come on, go get your stuff. Unless you want to go back to poking Walkers with that piddly little knife of yours.” Michonne pushes me towards the cell-blocks, not giving me further space for hesitation and I groan my way up to the buildings.

Michonne is the most stubborn, and determined, woman I have ever met, and while our interactions at the prison have been few and far between, I have come to admire her nerve despite my initial reservations. Reservations I knew were returned with gusto. It’s a big deal, her trusting me with this, and even though I hate the idea of leaving the safety of this sanctuary, my people-pleasing personality is eager to prove to her I can in fact do this.

* * *

I’m changing into boots, which are styled to look like genuine rough-and-tumble motorcycle boots, but are in reality designer and cost a fortune, when I hear a rap on the bars of the cell.

“Yeah?” I ask, not looking up as I tighten the lines of laces around my calves.

“Heard you were going out,” comes Daryl’s drawl and I startle.

“Oh, hi,” I say, finishing with the laces and pushing my curls from my face as I stand up beside the bunk. “And, uh, yeah. Apparently. Test run for me, so that’s good. Maybe?”

“If you ain’t sure then you won’t be safe,” he says, still lingering next to the sheet he’s holding aside with one dirty hand. I motion for him to come in and he does with a shrug, the sheet falling back to cover the open cell door. His jaw, covered in neglected scruff, is clenched to the point of a muscular tick. Four months, and I would be surprised if he had even bothered with a shower, let alone a shave.

“I’ll be with Michonne and Glenn, I’ll be safe.” I slide my knife into my belt.

“Not with that thing you won’t,” Daryl grumbles, as he steps forward and unclasps his own knife from his belt, extending it inside its sheath to me.

I stare at him, wide-eyed, and then down at the knife in his hand.

“Go on, take it.”

“I can’t take yours, Daryl. I’m sure there’s a spare I can get …”

“Not taking no for an answer, woman. Just take the damn thing.”

I bite my lip at the small indication of an emotion other than irritation in his voice, and grasp the weapon, exchanging my own knife for it. Daryl nods and exhales, like he had been clinging onto his breath.

“I’ll bring it back.”

“You better, that’s my best one,” he says, and I chuckle.

“You baby everyone like this on their first time out?” I ask, baiting him. I know he doesn’t. I know this is an unusually concerned reaction for him, but my talk with Carol, weeks ago now, still lingers in the darker corners of my consciousness.

I had watched Daryl more closely, after Carol’s expression of her own suspicions, and sure enough had seen some evidence of Daryl’s interest in me, whatever that interest may be. Sly looks out of the corner of his eye when he didn’t know I was observing him just as closely. Indications of him positioning himself during communal eating so that he had me in his line of sight. I had dismissed all those occurrences as coincidence, or me reading too much into the situation after Carol had planted the seeds of the idea in my head. Seeds that Sasha’s frequent teasing had nurtured. I had even caught him staring brazenly at my legs once when I had been dancing in the yard with some of the kids, an odd mix of babysitting entertainment and aerobics. It had been a blisteringly hot day and I had foregone jeans in favour of shorts. Daryl had walked past, on his way to take over someone’s watch, and had literally stopped in his tracks to look me up and down. I swore I had seen his cheeks colour when he caught sight of the long, tanned limbs I had been hiding under pants for months, but as soon as he had seen me staring back at him and smiling before flipping into a roundoff he had turned heel and positively fled. Even that incident could be written off as Daryl being a red-blooded male. But this, not so much.

“Most people don’t need babying,” he says, gravel voiced, and I can’t help but squirm, my collar heating. He sounds so sure, so instantly dismissive that I curse myself for ever entertaining the idea that he could care about me in any way. This gesture, his knife, it’s just to ensure the protection of those he does care about and is another opportunity for him to be an arsehole.

“Well, thanks for the knife then,” I say, flinching when my voice hitches. I turn around before I can see his reaction and dump the contents of my pack onto the bed, rifling through the various items to return anything of use that I may need on the run.

“You were right. I am kind of jerk, huh?” He sighs, and I can hear him shifting from foot to foot. “’M sorry. It ain’t that you need babying …”

“So, what is it then?” I ask, back stiff as I continue to inventory my pack. “You still bitter about Merle? That I got time with him you didn’t? Or are you just mad at me?” I keep my voice calm, but my teeth are gritted as I stand back up and face him, his expression frozen as he gnaws the skin on the side of his thumb.

“Never told you what Merle said ‘bout you.” Daryl evades my questions. He stares at me from hooded eyes and I incline my head with a sigh.

“Fine, I’ll bite. What did Merle say about me? Other than gross comments about my legs.”

Daryl’s lip twitches in a half-smirk. “You were the only thing he cared ‘bout, back there, at Woodbury. Said you saved his life. When you told me about giving him blood and helping with his arm, I figured that’s what he meant, but I don’t think that was it. I get it now.”

“Why?” I ask, my voice dropped to a whisper as a rush of feeling washes over me. Stupid, pig-headed, irritating, brave, wonderful Merle.

“Whole time Merle was just fighting ‘cause he had to, you know? But it’s different when you have someone to fight for …”

“He fought for you too, Daryl.”

He nods, still worrying the flesh near his thumbnail. “Yeah. Sometimes he did.”

“Maybe,” I say, twining my hands together. Daryl steps closer, reaching for me with trepidation before grasping one of my wrists in his strong fingers.

“You gotta have something to fight for. It will make it easier, make you fight harder. Out there, you gotta be fighting for what’s in here, okay?” I meet his eyes and nod, noting the heat in his gaze as his brings my hand up to his face. His mouth is rough and firm on my skin when he presses a surprise kiss to my palm, and I gasp at the contact.

“You fight out there, and you come back.” Daryl says when he pulls away, releasing my hand like a hot coal. He is gone before I can reply.

* * *

I pull open the water-stained bathroom cabinet expecting to find it already well looted. Tossing loose cottonwool balls and a packet of floss with a sigh, I pause when my fingers drift over a blister pack of four orange pills they find pressed up against the wall of the cabinet, overlooked. The label printed on the plastic packaging makes me grin, and I palm the pills before shifting my still too-empty pack over my shoulder.

“Anything?” Glenn asks when I join him in the hallway.

“Just these really,” I say, showing him the pills.

“_Levitra_?” He squints to read the name. “What’s that?”

“Oh, it’s uh, Viagra,” I blush as I reply and laugh when I see Glenn’s own pink cheeks.

“Oh! God, that’s … I mean, do we need them?”

“Well, not me personally,” I say with a giggle, causing Glenn to redden further. “But I read once that Viagra is being used to treat pulmonary hypertension. Not sure what good a four-pack would do us, even in that scenario, but I figure they’re worth taking anyway. They’re PDE5 inhibitors so they …”

Glenn holds up a hand. “Don’t even bother trying to explain them to me. I’m just gonna take you at your word.”

I slide the pills into my pack to join my other meagre finds.

“Besides,” he says, a cheeky grin planted on his face as we head back downstairs. “You could always give them to Daryl to rile him up.”

I gape at Glenn, who has turned into a stammering mess that I can’t help but giggle at.

“Geez, that came out wrong. I meant as a prank. To play. On Daryl. Wow.” He joins in my laughter as we descend the carpeted staircase.

“Gosh what is it with you people?” I say. “You all joke about it like there’s something really going on between us.”

“Because there is,” Glenn smirks. “We’ve all seen the way he looks at you.”

Michonne joins us at the front door of the ransacked house and quirks an eyebrow. “You talking about Daryl checking Lily out?”

I throw my hands up in defeat and the other two chuckle. “Do you guys have secret meetings to gossip about him or something?”

“We just know him well, “Michonne says. “Well enough to know when he is doing very un-Daryl like things.”

“Like staring at you across the yard.”

“Oh, or fretting every time he and I leave the prison ‘cause ‘Damn girl gonna get herself killed while we’re gone’” Michonne puts on an exaggerated Southern accent.

“Or whispering under his breath ‘Gee, she tryin’ to kill me?’ when you walked past in a short dress,” Glenn finishes with a wide grin which grows when he notes my shock.

“You guys are bonkers,” I say, without conviction, and they both laugh again.

“That’s his knife isn’t it?” Glenn says, pointing to the weapon at my waist.

“Yeah, but he just wanted me properly armed. That doesn’t _mean_ anything.”

“You keep telling yourself that _Princess_,” Michonne says, mimicking Daryl again and I gape. Just how observant were these guys? Or, how unsubtle had Daryl been if what they are all saying is true, which is seeming more likely since the hand kiss this morning. I sigh and go through the front door ahead of them, onto the ramshackle porch of the house.

One creaking step onto the boards and the barrel of a gun is pressed to my temple. I yelp, my fingers instinctively flying to the pistol in my belt, the pistol which I have no more knowledge of then the basic mechanics of safety off, aim, shoot. The man curls his fingers into my belt, yanking the gun away from me before tucking it into his own pants.

“Drop your weapons, all of you,” the man next to me orders. “Then hands up and against the house. Don’t try nothing funny now. We got the bigger guns and the jump on this little one here.”

Michonne and Glenn follow me out, sending anxious glances my way, before placing their guns on the porch where they are immediately scooped up by a second man. Both are in military fatigues, and I can’t help but whimper when the gun is pressed harder against my skull.

“Easy now. The sword too,” the second man says, and Michonne removes the sword from her back and hands it to him.

“Hey boss!” The guy holding me at gunpoint yells, cupping his mouth. “Come check this out.”

“Alright, let’s see what we’ve got …”

A third man comes from around the side of the house, and I see a handsome face below a backwards baseball cap as he appears on the porch steps.

“Holy shit. Lily?” Martinez says, assault rifle held in slack hands as he stares. I gape back at him, feeling Glenn and Michonne tense beside me.

“You know this chick?”

“Yeah … God, Mitch, drop it. Let her go.”

The first soldier lowers his gun and I exhale my held breath.

“Caesar,” I say after a gasp, “you’re alive. You’re okay?”

“Yeah. I’m okay.” He nods, bounding up the porch steps to stand in front of me and pulling me in for a tight hug. “It’s good to see you,” he says into my hair.

“Lily …” Glenn starts, shutting up when the first soldier, Mitch, trains the gun on him.

“Caesar, tell them to back down,” I say, pulling away from his arms. Martinez motions for both men to lower their weapons which they do after a beat, exchanging a weighted stare. 

“Give my friends their stuff back.”

“Okay. Okay, we can figure this out,” Martinez says, rubbing his jaw.

“There is nothing to figure out. Give them their stuff back and then we can talk. You and me.” I meet his eye and calm my breathing, hoping I seem more tough than I feel. He nods after searching my face for something, and the second, yet unnamed guy hands Michonne back her sword and both their rifles.

“Mine too,” I say, pointing at my gun in the waistband of Mitch’s pants. With a fixed stare from Martinez and a huff he does so, and I rehome it in my belt.

“Okay, everyone’s happy and armed.”

“And now we leave,” Michonne says, straight backed as she grabs my arm.

“I’m sorry. You can’t do that.” Martinez shakes his head.

“What are you talking about?”

“Lily, we have a camp. Not too far from here. He’s there.”

“Who’s there?” Glenn asks, just as Michonne’s eyes widen. She had recognised Caesar, I had seen that on her face, and she knows exactly who he’s talking about.

“Take me to him,” she all but hisses.

“Not going to happen Michonne. That’s my camp. My people, _good _people. Him being there wasn’t meant to happen. He just … showed up. He’s playing it cool for now, following the rules. But Lily.” Caesar turns his brown-eyed stare on me. “_Bebé_, he’s coming for you.”

“How do you know?” I ask, my insides in turmoil. “He’s left the prison alone so far.” Philip is alive. It’s a wave of relief and curl of anxiety all at once.

“Only because he had to. Now he has people …”

“Your people, right?” Michonne stares daggers at Martinez. “Tell them not to come, not to follow him. You don’t want this.”

“I don’t. He does. I can’t stop him, I can’t protect you. I can only do what’s right for me, for my own people.”

“Are you guys talking about One-Eye Bri?” Mitch asks with a chuckle. “What’s this little chick to him.”

“You’re his daughter,” the other soldier says from across the porch. “You’re the one that was taken from him.”

I frown, trying to make sense of it all. What exactly did these guys know about Philip? Why was Caesar going along with whatever façade had been established? Nothing makes sense and with every word I am growing queasier, the reality of the situation sinking in.

“There’s a way to avoid it all,” Martinez says, looking between me, Michonne and Glenn, who has caught on and is white-knuckling his rifle. “You come with me now, Lily. Come back to the camp and this can all go away. You care about them, right? The Woodbury crowd, these new friends? You save them and yourself and no one has to get hurt. We can just walk away.”

“No,” Michonne says, grip on my arm tightening. “Not happening.”

“This isn’t your choice,” Caesar says, focusing on me, “it’s Lily’s.”

I chew at the dry skin of my lips. It’s not a choice. Not really. I go and the prison is safe. I go and I can save them all. And, I force myself to admit, I go, and I can see Philip again.

“Okay,” I say, with no more than a moment’s hesitation.

“Lily,” Glenn says, a frantic plea, “you can’t. We can’t trust these guys! You just going to believe them that the Governor is there? That this can work?”

“Pete,” Martinez says, turning to the second solider, “describe Brian.”

“Uh, tall. Brown hair …”

“Don’t forget the eyepatch, dumbass,” Mitch says, grinning.

I look to Glenn and watch his face crumple.

“Lily, you don’t have to do this.” Michonne tugs me to her. “We’ll find another way. No one is saying you have to sacrifice yourself …”

“He won’t hurt _me_, Michonne,” I say with a sad smile.

“You so sure about that?”

“This is the best way to do this. I go and you all get a chance. No more leaving to track him down, no more worrying he’ll be back with a militia to take you on again. It’s just …” I shrug. “Done.” My heart feels like it has sunk to my knees. To leave without saying goodbye to Hershel, or Sasha, or … Daryl. My stomach clenches painfully again.

“What are we supposed to tell everyone?” Glenn asks, throat tight.

“Whatever you want. The truth? I don’t know …”

“We’re gonna lose the light if we don’t get going,” Mitch says with a glance at the darkening sky. “Don’t have time for discussions about this. You in or out, cutie?”

Michonne’s frown deepens as she stares at the man, her gaze speaking volumes when she turns back to me. “You know, Merle asked me to watch over you if I ever got to see you again. To help you. That’s why I brought you out here in the first place …”

“He did?” I ask. “When?”

“Right before the Governor, Philip, _Bri_, killed him. Merle wanted you to stay safe, Lily. To get away from that monster. And Daryl …”

“Daryl will understand,” I say, cutting her off and avoiding dwelling on thoughts of either Dixon brother. “He’ll just have to. I’ll be okay. Just, say sorry to them all. For me.”

“I’ll watch out for her,” Martinez says, sliding an arm over my shoulders. We haven’t been this close in a long time and it is both comforting and disconcerting to have him touch me so familiarly. I feel a pang of guilt when I think of Daryl and the heat that had radiated through me at the chaste contact of his lips on my palm.

“Take care of yourselves,” I say, pulling Michonne in for a one-armed hug she unexpectedly returns, and then I share a much warmer embrace with Glenn. “Give my love to them all, okay?”

Glenn nods, his eyes darting to the soldiers with the sizeable rifles and then back to me.

“Come on, Lil. Gotta bounce. We’re parked just down the road.” Caesar takes my shaking hand in his warm, firm fingers and leads me away from the porch, from Michonne and Glenn, who stand like statues and watch us until we are out of sight.


End file.
